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1.0 


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^  US,    mil  2.0 


IL25  ■  u 


18 


1.6 


V 


<^ 


/: 


cm.      <J>.    ^'^ 


t    / 


Photographic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


^ 


•17 


1 


iV 


<^ 


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% 


V 


23  W^ST  aAlN  STREiT 
WEBSTIR.N.Y.  HS80 

(716)  a,''i.4«:-i 


> 


^ 


5"        4^. 


CIHM/ICMH 

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I 


y 


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Wi 


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12 


32X 


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et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  nAcessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
iliustrent  la  mAthode. 


1  2  3 


1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

/ 


7 


C^i 


^  a^L^ 


s. 


X. 


-^  -^      - 


1^^ 


WEARITHORNE. 


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^^^Pi^^BWBIPBPB^BBIUi 


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■! 


WEARITHORNE; 


IN    THE 


TO-DAY. 


AUTHOR  OF  "  INGBMISCO"  AND  "  RANDOLFH  HONOR." 


•I* 


— —  "  this  dream  of  mine- 
Being  now  awake,  I'll  queen  it  no  inch  further, 
But  milk  my  ewes,  and  weep." — IVinier's  Tale. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  &   CO. 
1872. 


L 


■HUP 


i4S 


Entered  (according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1871,  by 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  &   CO., 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress  at  Washington. 


10  J  3  i-S 


WEARITHORNE. 


I. 

How  the  wind  flitteth 
;  In  and  out  the  halls  I 

Unseen  robes  trailing, — 

Lightest  foot  that  falls ; 
Murmur  and  laughter 

Weird  and  soft-supprest, — 
How  mem'ries  wander  here, 

And  never  rest  1 

Blue  the  flames  flicker 

In  the  yawning  hearth, — 
Leaping  and  dancing, 

Yet  withouten  mirth. 
Far  in  dark  corners 
,  In  and  out  they  glide ; 

Out  from  dim  comers,  eyes 

Just  peer,  and  hide. 

"A  ^'  ^y*  ^^'^^  ^^'  need  o'  a  long  spoon,  if  so 
-^^  be  he's  bound  for  to  sup  porridge  wi'  Auld 
Nick,— that  will  my  young  Mester  o'  Wearithorne. 
An'  so  he's  find  out  for  himsen,  one  o'  thoe  days, 
mayhap." 

'•  He's  none  so  far  wrong,  my  man,  there,"  put 
in  another  and  a  shriller  voice.  "  He's  nobbut 
right  at  the  most  o'  times,  is  my  man.  But  about 
t'  young  Squire,  now ;  why,  I  were  in  an'  out  here 

'*  (5) 


r  • 


^s 


WEARITHORNE. 


at  Wearithorne,  under  Marget  like,  when  he  were 
but  a  bit  laddie;  and  for  all  he  were  a  stiff  one,  I've 
'  niver  clapt  eyne  on  a  finer  bairn." 

The  young  Squire? 

The  words,  coming  through  the  open  window 
of  Naunty  Marget's  great  cheery  kitchen,  stayed 
me  in  my  loitering  past  it  across  the  courtyard. 
The  young  Squire  ?  Tidings  of  him  ?  With  more 
of  interest  than  of  mere  girlish  curiosity,  I  stopped, 
and  leaned  with  both  arms  on  the  window-ledge. 

I  hardly  deepened  the  shadow  there,  which  the 
swaying  ivy-bough  had  flung  before,  across  the 
lattice.  There  was  little  risk  of  my  being  observed. 
All  were  assembled  round  the  hearth,  where,  until 
the  summer  evenings  set  in  hopelessly,  my  good 
old  friend  Marget,  sole  guardian  of  Wearithorne, 
or  "  The  House,"  as  it  was  known  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, was  wont  to  keep  a  light  fire  crackling  away, 
by  way  of  companionship  in  her  loneliness. 

But  the  present  was  as  far  removed  from  lone- 
liness as  it  could  be  by  four  or  five  old  wives  as- 
sembled there,  and  more  than  one  or  two  among 
them  with  "her  man."  The  dark-blue  belted 
smock,  or  the  short-waisted  frock-coat,  a-glitter 
with  its  rows  of  metal  buttons,  made  the  shadows 
to  the  picture,  where  gay  flames  lighted  up  gayer 
kirtles  and  short-gowns,  and  high-crowned  white 
caps.  The  flames  glanced,  too,  upon  the  great  oak 
dresser,  with  its  burnished  pewters  flashing  out 
from  floor  to  roof;  and  on  the  oak-beamed  roof 


WEARITHORNE. 


9 


itself  and  its  suspended  frame,  garlanded  with  oat- 
cake and  garnished  with  pendants  of  cured  hams 
and  legs  of  mutton. 

Yet  the  picture  was  too  large  a  part  of  my  own 
life  to  hold  my  attention,  as  a  picture,  even  for  a 
moment.  No  roof  in  all  the  dale — ours  up  at  the 
Hag  only  excepted — beneath  which  these  good 
gossips  were  not  used  to  meet  thus,  to  hear  or  to 
tell  some  new  thing  under  cover  of  the  click  of 
the  knitting-pricks.  These  "sittings,"  however, 
were  chiefly  in  the  winter  evenings ;  and  it  must 
be  a  choice  bit  of  gossip  indeed,  to  draw  the  men 
here  now. 

So  it  was  no  wonder  I  had  loitered  when  I  heard 
a  deep  bass  mingling  in  the  chorus  of  the  knit- 
ting-song which  was  dying  away  as  I  set  foot  on 
the  courtyard  pavement. 

All  this  while  the  conversation  had  gone  on.  A 
third  voice, — it  was  Meg  o'  Birkdale's : 

"  Eh,  Bessy,  happen  ye  may  make  us  a'  believe, 
as  ye  believe  yersen,  as  t'  sun  rises  and  sets  in 
yer  man  yonder.  But,"  went  on  the  scornful 
spinster,  nothing  heeding  the  little  laugh  that  went 
round  the  circle, — "but  t'  young  Squire, — that's 
quite  another  make  o'  a  thing.  As  ye  say,  he 
were  a  stiff  one  when  he  were  a  bairn,  an'  flitted 
away  fro'  Wearithorne  it's  fifteen  year  ago  this 
summer ;  an'  I  am  thinking  he's  be  but  a  stiff  one 
yet.  And — though  it's  no  all  day  long  an'  ivery 
day  as  men-folk's  wide  enough  awake  to  run  a 


«•  I 


WEARITHORNE. 


proverb  straight,  let  be  a  plow — yet  I'll  say  this 
for  yer  Adam  yonder,  this  time,  —  he's  be  right 
enough  ;  it's  ill  supping  porridge  wi'  Auld  Nick 
wi'  a  short  spoon.  An'  I  misdoubt  the  young 
Squire's  is  none  o*  t'  longest.  What' j  that,  Bessy  ? 
He's  no  call  for  to  sup  porridge  wi'  Auld  Nick  ? 
Happen  ye're  right  there,  an'  we  all  say  that  same. 
It's  t'  way  o*  t'  world,  leastways  in  our  dales.  When 
Auld  Nick  spreads  his  feast,  we  tuck  our  head  o' 
one  side,  not  to  see  who's  sitting  anent  us,  an'  we 
dip  on  after  t'  savory  porridge  wi'  our  poor  little 
spoon  o'  good  intentions.  But  betimes  t'  spoon 
falls  with  a  ring  in  t'  empty  platter,  an'  we  turn  our 
head  in  a  vast  o'  hurry — to  find  our  queer  friend 
flitted,  mayhap,  but  wi'  him  t'  porridge  as  we'd  fain 
ha'  suppered  on.  It's  none  so  pretty-behaved  in 
us :  if  we're  friends  to  t'  gift,  it's  no  for  us  to  be 
fremd  to  t'  giver.  If  nought  wunna  serve  t'  young 
Mester  but  coming  back  here  to  Wearithorne  an' 
shutting  us  out  o'  t'  common  an'  setting  up  a  fac- 
tory as  '11  ruin  a'  our  trade  i'  weaving  an'  knitting, 
— if  nought  wunna  serve  him  but  this,  why,  then, 
I  say,  let  him  sup  wi  's  Auld  Nick.  But  let  him 
make  his  manners,  beg  a  spoon  o'  his,  an'  fall  to  it 
so, — not  rattle  his  '  good  intentions'  in  our  face  to 
pleasure  us,  as  if  we  were  bairns,  an'  have  it  talked 
about  as  he's  bound  for  to  improve  our  dales  and 
us." 

Truly,  Meg  o'  Birkdale  was  generally  credited 
with  knowing  the  most  profitable  way  of  supping 


WEARITIIORNE. 


with  Auld  Nick — and  saving  her  soul  too,  per- 
haps ;  for  she  never  had  the  worst  of  any  bargain. 
But  I  grew  impatient  of  her  over-long  harangue, 
being  more  eager  for  text  than  for  commentary.  I 
was  not  one  to  take  warning  until  the  day  came 
when  my  own  spoon  fell  with  a  ring  upon  the 
empty  platter. 

But  I  never  thought  of  myself,  so  intent  was  I 
on  gaining  something  more  of  the  strange  news. 

"  But,  Meg,"  remonstrated  the  other  (I  had 
looked  round  for  a  sharper  answer  from  Naunt\ 
Marget,  but  she  wa^  not  in  the  room),  "  what  ails 
ye  at  t'  Mester,  to  miscall  him  this  gate  ?  One  'ud 
think  as  ye'd  be  main  glad  to  see  Wearithorne 
wi*  a  Lethwaite  again  under  t'  auld  roof,  and  a 
Lethwaite  as  has  getten  his  pockets  lined  wi'  gold 
away  off  in  t'  Indies,  they  do  say,  and's  bound  for 
to  ha'  builders  down  fro'  York  for  to  build  up  t' 
House  braw  an'  fine  again,  as'U  be  a  credit  to  t'  dale. 
For  it's  been  but  a  dree  House  this  many  a  year,  it 
has." 

There  was  a  general  murmur  of  assent,  and  an 
"  It'll  pleasure  Marget  rarely,  t'  day  t'  Mester  comes 
back  to  his  own."  But  there  had  been  a  half- 
suppressed,  doubtful  "  Humph"  from  one  or  two 
among  the  men,  and  Adam  knitted  his  brows 
darkly  over  the  knitting-pins  in  his  great,  brown, 
clumsy,  skilful  fingers. 

Meg  had  shrugged  her  shoulders,  while  she  took 
up  the  word  again : 


\ 

« 


10 


WEARITHORNE. 


"I'll  none  miscall  t'  Master,  Bessy.  But  I'll 
say  just  this :  It's  a  kittle  thing,  it  is,  to  come  back 
here  fro'  foreign  parts,  be  they  London  city  or 
across  t*  seas,  and  bring  wi'  him  such  a  rubble 
o*  new-fangled  notions  as'U  take  thoe  bread-win- 
ners straight  out  o'  yer  hands,"  she  added,  with  a 
nod,  as  she  held  up  her  own  knitting,  while  the 
firelight  flashes  came  and  went  upon  the  steel. 
"  How  many  bump-caps  can  ye  knit  a  day  ?  Well, 
what  time  div  ye  think  to  make  again'  this  new- 
fangled machinery,  as  they  say  as  he's  to  set  up  in 
a  stretch  o'  t'  common  ?" 

"  T'  common,  as  we'n  gi'en  up  to  t'  sheep  to 
pick  a  mouthful  on,"  muttered  Adam,  with  the 
grim  frown  gathering  again. 

"  Eh,  but  ye'U  mind  it's  no  just  to  say  t'  com- 
mon," put  in  Bessy,  deprecatingly.  "  It's  but  a  bit 
o'  t'  Lethwaite  estate  as  has  lain  waste  on  t'  edge 
o'  t*  common." 

"  Common  or  no  common," — this  time  there 
were  voices  more  than  two  or  three  that  took  the 
question  up, — "f  beasties  ha'  had  t'  range  o't  for 
so  long,  it's  ill  shutting  them  out  now." 

"  And  for  one  o'  t'  proud  Lethwaites  to  demean 
himsen  wi'  building  a  mill, — an'  that  on  t'  ruin  o* 
t'  auld  castle  as  has  been  a  pride  an'  a  show  in  t' 
dale !  Why,  many's  t'  sixpence  as  my  Kit's  earned 
fro'  travelling  bodies  passing  by  t'  cottage,  as  were 
speering  t'  road  to  t'  auld  place." 

"  And  it's  here  an  inclosure-bill,  and  there  an  in- 


WEARITHORNE. 


II 


closure-bill,  till  there'll  be  niver  an  acre  o'  waste 
land  in  a' t'  Ridings." 

"  Eh,  well,"  cried  Bessy,  dropping  her  knitting 
forgotten  on  her  knee,  while  she  looked  round 
from  one  to  another  with  a  broad  face  of  blank 
dismay,  "  if  it's  althegether  such  a  kittle  cast  to 
play,  this  about  t'  mill,  what  for  dunnot  ye  go  to  t' 
poor  laddie  and  warn  him  ?" 

She  was  broken  in  upon  by  the  mocking  laugh 
of  Meg  o'  Birkdale. 

"Ay,  ay,  I'se  go  fetch  away  t'  torrent  o*  Har- 
draw  in  t'  hollow  o'  my  hand ;  and  at  after,  I'se 
wait  a  wee  to  gather  strength  afore  I  strive  to  turn 
t'  current  o'  a  Lethwaite's  will.  Go  to  t'  poor  lad- 
die an'  warn  him,  did  she  say?" 

"  Him  as  wunna  be  warned  by  his  feyther,  mun 
be  warned  by  his  stepfeyther." 

It  was  Adam  o'  Linn  Brig's  gruff  voice  said 
that.  He  was  a  man  of  few  words,  leaving  the 
burden  of  conversation  generally,  with  a  somewhat 
scornful  indifference,  to  his  good  wife  Bessy.  But 
what  he  said  he  meant;  and  somehow  a  shud- 
dering thrill  ran  through  me  as  I  listened  to  the 
familiar  saying  from  his  lips. 

Perhaps  it  made  the  same  impression  upon 
others  ;  for  a  dead  paupe  followed  it,  in  which  the 
crackling  of  the  flames,,  and  the  click-click  of  the 
knitting-pricks,  had  space  to  make  themselves  dis- 
tinctly heard, — until  Bessy  spoke,  presently,  in  a 
hushed  voice. 


i 


12 


WEARITHORNE. 


"  Whisht !"  she  almost  whispered,  her  eyes  fixed 
on  th6  inner  door ;  "  it's  Marget's  coming  back." 

Guilty  glances  were  exchanged  from  one  to  an- 
other,— they  had  evidently  been  talking  treason, 
and  dreaded  lest  some  shadow  of  it  might  have 
stamped  its  brand  upon  the  brow.  Some  one 
coughed :  there  was  an  uneasy  movement 

When,  suddenly,  Meg  o'  Birkdale's  shrill  and 
somewhat  quavering,  yet  still  powerful  voice  struck 
up  the  air  of  a  familiar  knitting-song.  It  either 
had  broken  the  spell,  or  was  a  secure  refuge  from 
embarrassment ;  for  every  voice  chimed  in,  while 
the  stuijdy  figures  were  rocking  to  and  fro  in  the 
swaving,  keeping  time  with  busy  tossing  hands 
which  rose  and  fell  with  the  old  rhythm : 

"  Twal  bonny  sheep  'at  strayed  afield  the  day, 
The  mirk  November  day,  the  lee-long  weary  day; — 

(Hie,  Rockie  !  run,  Rockie,  run !) 
Twal  bonny  sheep  'at  strayed  afield  the  day ; 
Fause  Helbeck's  tinkle  calls  across  the  brae, — 
Down  Shunnor-fell  the  mists  lurk  a'  the  way, — 

(Run,  Rockie,  run !) 
The  fause  snow  fa's  as  fast  as  blooms  i'  May, 
Eleven  sheep  we'n  lost  the  weary  day, 

And  ane  we  fun'." 

And  then,  on  the  next  row, — , 

"  Ten  sheep  we'n  lost  the  lee-long  weary  day, 
And  twa  we  fun'." 

But  I  had  already  crossed  the  court  before  that 
second  sheep  wi.c  found,  and  the  chorus  only  fol- 


t 


WEARITHORNE. 


13 


lowed  me  upon  my  way;  for,  though  I  meant  to 
seek  out  Marget  presently,  I  had  no  mind  to  be 
caught  there  at  the  window ;  and  I  knew  well,  if  I 
loitered,  Naunty  Marget' s  keen  eyes  would  not  fail 
to  detect  me. 

So  I  stole  away  from  the  open  window,  and  stood 
hesitating.  Should  1  go  home  ?  or  for  awhile  into 
the  library, — my  usual  refuge  when  the  house- 
keeper was  not  at  my  disposal? 

Home  ? — it  was  an  empty  sound  to  me  at  best. 
At  worst,  it  was  drear  and  hard  as  its  line  of  rock- 
bound  cliffs  rising  up  yonder  to  the  southeast  of 
the  courtyard  where  I  loitered,  and  barren  as  the 
moor  that  stretched  between.  But  here  the  moor 
was  shut  out.  Glimpses  of  smooth  pastures  dotted 
over  with  browsing  cattle,  these  limes  and  oaks 
gave  between  breeze-lifted  boughs.  The  moat 
sweeping  about  the  rising  ground  where  stood  the 
House,  and  dividing  in  twain  the  prim  garden 
with  its  stiff  flower-beds  and  multiform  clipped 
hedges,  was  overgrown  with  shrubs  and  weeds  and 
blossoming  eglantine ;  and  here  a  crossing  of  felled 
trees,  all  green  and  mossy,  replaced  the  vanished 
drawbridge  and  led  into  the  square  paved  court. 
This  in  former  days  of  danger  had  been  walled, 
and  strengthened  by  rude  arched  and  turreted  por- 
tals ;  but  time  and  neglect  had  crumbled  these, — 
ivy  and  lichens  had  overrun  their  fragmentary  re- 
mains. The  court  was  now  bi'.f  n  ;^  assy  vestibule, 
inclosed  on  three  sides  by  tiiC  gray  mansion  itself, 

2 


\ 


14 


WEARITHORNE. 


with  its  steep,  uneven  roofs,  overhanging  balco- 
nies^ and  small,  pointed  watch-tower  at  every  fre- 
quent angle  added  and  superadded  by  successive 
Lethwaite  generations.  It  was  all  this,  I  say.  I 
speak  in  the  past ;  not  because  the  few  years  passed 
since  then  have  had  power  to  change  Wearithorne, 
but  that  to  me  there  is  no  Wearithorne  now. 

I  am  writing  of  that  sunset,  however, — not  of 
this;  and  that  sunset,  I  hesitated  but  for  a  mo- 
ment, then  turned  to  a  side-door,  and  so  to  the 
library. 

This  time  it  was  not  the  books  there  I  had  come 
to  see.  With  the  conversation  I  had  overheard  fresh 
in  my  'mind,  I  crossed  the  room  straight  to  where 
the  wide-open  bay-window  threw  a  flush  of  sunset 
or:  the  two  portraits  hangin  j  near. 

Fifteen  years  ago,  said  Meg  o'  Birkdale, — fifteen 
years  since  Mrs.  Lethwaite  flitted  with  her  bairn 
from  Wearithorne,  just  when  Uncle  Kester  came 
back  from  sea  to  Iiis  old  neighborhood,  bringing 
me — a  desolate,  tiny  creature — with  him  to  his 
home  at  Mallerstang.  Why  I  always  connected 
that  coming  and  that  flitting,  I  do  not  know.  Mar- 
get,  from  whom  I  had  the  story,  certainly  did 
not  so  connect  them.  But  the  instincts  of  child- 
hood have  strange  wisdom  in  them  sometimes. 
In  all  these  years,  since  first  my  roaming  steps  had 
found  the  way  from  Mallerstang,  I  had  been  steal- 
ing in  here  where  the  light  fell  on  the  portraits, 
and  gazing  up  with  a  cold  shrinking  from  the  fair, 


WEARITHORNE. 


15 


slight  woman  whose  haughty  glance  met  mine, 
and  with  a  wondering  interest  in  the  sturdy  little 
lad  looking  at  me  frankly  over  his  hound. 

"  Stolen  waters  are  sweet,  and  bread  eaten  in 
secret  is  pleasant."  Happen,  if  my  Eden  of  Weari- 
thorne  had  not  been  shut  out  from  me  by  the 
flaming  sword  of  Uncle  Kester's  wrath,  I  might 
not  have  crept  back  so  often,  a-hungered  and 
a-thirst,  into  the  shadow  of  the  tree  of  knowledge 
in  the  old  library  there. 

And  the  last  draught  of  stolen  waters  is  the 
sweetest.    That  last  sunset 

It  is  fading  out  so  soon  in  the  great,  dim  library, 
— the  dimmer  for  its  dusky  alcoves,  and  its  carven 
wainscoting  of  oak,  and  the  high,  deep  windows 
in  their  embrasures.  Thrown  wide  as  those  win- 
dows are,  shadows  are  gathering  in  too  fast,  for  all 
my  stooping  low  upon  the  hearth-rug,  with  the 
open  page  aslant  in  the  fire-glow. 

For  a  pile  of  books,  lying  evidently  just  un- 
packed before  one  of  the  bookcases,  had  drawn 
me  away  from  the  pictures.  No  new  thing  had 
ever  arrived  to  Wearithorne  before,  in  all  my 
memory  of  it.  And  so  every  volume  seemed  a 
herald  of  the  ..laster's  coming.  A  new  book? 
Many  an  old  one  on  the  walls  here  was  a  special 
friend  of  mine.  But  for  a  new  one, — setting  aside 
some  "  Flower  of  a  Sweet  Savor  Pluckt  in  the 
Meadows  of  Grace,"   which    Letty  would    bring 


^r 


i6 


WEARITHORNE. 


home  at  rare  long  intervals  from  some  chance 
peddling  body  down  the  dale, — setting  aside  these, 
I  did  not  know  so  much  as  the  back  of  a  new 
book. 

And  now  I  held  one  in  my  hand.  I  turned  to 
the  title-page.  Yes,  actually, — London,  1822.  It 
seemed  to  bring  the  great  unknown  world  there 
very  near  to  me,  in  some  strange  way.  I  stood 
gazing  at  it  dreamily;  and  then  I  settled  myself 
within  the  glow  of  the  fire,  kindled,  I  nothing 
doubted,  to  drive  out  the  damps  by  way  of  prepa- 
ration for  the  Master's  home-coming, — in  some  in- 
definite time. 

I  had  already  loitered  away  my  spare  half-hour, 
and  risked  Uncle  Kester's  anger.  Having  been 
pound  foolish,  why  should  I  not  be  penny  wise, 
and  gather  all  the  pleasure  here  I  could,  before  I 
went  home  to  the  gloom  of  Mallerstang  ? 

For  my  two  eyes  are  fairly  taken  captive  in  the 
dainty  little  volume.  No  wonder  I  lose  myself  in 
it ;  for  as  the  letters  grow  confused  and  dim  before 
me,  and  I  raise  my  head,  it  seems  the  room  has 
taken  up  the  thread  of  the  poem  just  where  the 
book  left  off.  For  all  is  gloom  and  silence;  on  the 
dark  oak  beams,  and  on  the  panels  of  the  wain- 
scoting, at  every  movement  of  my  own,  or  every 
leaping  flame,  my 

"  Shadow  still 
Glowers  about,  as  it  would  fill 
The  room  with  wildest  forms  and  shades  ;'* 


\  \ 


i    I 


WEARITHORNE. 


17 


and  presently,  outside  upon  the  courtyard  flags, — 

« the  stil!  footfall 
Of  one  returning  homewards  late." 

Was  it  outside  in  the  court  ?  or  was  it  the  mere 
echo  of  the  verse  I  have  been  reading  ?  I  listen, — 
stoop  down  closer  to  the  fire-flicker  once  again,  and 
read  on,  till  now  the  words  are  wavering  out  to 
one  blurred  line  before  me.  Why  could  ^ot  the 
daylight  have  tarried  yet  five  minutes  more,  nor 
"  left  me  dark,  upon"  —  not  the  legend,  but  the 
"Eve  of  St.  Mark"? 

I  lift  my  head  with  a  little  groan  of  vexation, 
pushing  my  hair  back  from  my  brow  impatiently 
with  my  free  hand.    And  as  I  lift  my  head 

Can  he  have  been  standing  there  all  this  while  ? 
When  did  he  come  ?  How  did  I  not  hear  him  ? 
True,  I  had  left  the  door  ajar. 

And  there  he  was,  standing  on  the  other  side  of 
the  wide  hearth,  leaning  against  the  chimney-piece, 
looking  down  upon  me  with  a  twinkle  of  sup- 
pressed amusement  in  his  eyes. 

It  was  the  merest  glance  I  lifted  up  in  my  con- 
fusion. I  dropped  my  eyes  again  with  just  the 
dimmest  image  of  a  strong-built  figure  in  a  shoot- 
ing-jacket, a  bronzed,  bearded  face,  and  a  keen, 
answering  glance  that  seemed  to  be  reading  me 
through  and  through. 

"  Pardon  me,"  he  said,  quickly,  as  I  rose  from 
my  place  on  the  hearth-rug;  "  I'd  not  have  startled 


T 


ii: 


i8 


WEARITHORNE. 


■you 


you,  but  thought  some  spell  was  on  you,- 
were  so  deep  in  your  book." 

"I — I  did  not  know  any  one  was  ben,"  I  stam- 
mered. "  I  only  thought  to  find  Naunty  Marget, 
and  that  I  might  come  in  as  usual." 

"  And  so  you  may,"  he  hastened  to  say.  Then, 
as  his  eyes  fell  on  my  dress,  kirtle  and  bodice, — 
"  You  come  to  help  the  old  dame  in  the  house, 
perhaps  ?" 

"No;  but- 


» 


« 


V/ell,  but?" 
"  She  whiles  lets  me  arrange  the  books  in  here, 

and M     And  then  I  stole  a  swift  glance  at  my 

questioner.  It  lacked  courage  to  risk  encountering 
his,  but  took  a.  reassuring  survey  of  top-boots, 
stained,  evidently,  with  a  tramp  across  our  moors, 
and  of  a  stout  oaken  staff  he  was  twirling  idly  in 
his  careless  hold, — such  a  rude  staff  as  Uncle  Kes- 
ter  himself  might  use  in  climbing  the  fells.  No,  of 
course  it  was  not  Miles  Lethwaite.  Some  one  up 
from  York,  about  the  repairing  of  the  House  ?  I 
pictured  to  myself  the  Master  of  Wearithorne 
driving  through  the  long  lime-avenue  with  carriage- 
and-four  and  outriders,  according  to  Naunty  Mar- 
get's  description  of  the  day  when  his  mother  had 
brought  the  lad  to  take  possession  of  the  estate 
inherited  from  his  uncle,  Ihe  old  Master,  whose 
only  child  had  some  few  years  before  quitted  her 
home  with  her  lover,  been  disowned,  and  never 
more  heard  of. 


■..'^.'k 


WEARITHORNE. 


19 


"  You'll  be  a  stranger  here  at  Wearithorne  ?"  I 
asserted,  rather  than  asked,  my  embarrassment  van- 
ishing before  the  moorland  splashes  on  those  boots, 
and  my  sense  of  responsibility  in  Marget's  absence 
prompting  me  to  speak. 

"A  stranger  to  Wearithorne  ?  Yes,  a  stranger," 
he  repeated,  slowly.  "  But  you  know  it  well,  I  have 
no  doubt  ?" 

"  It's  no  late  days  I've  known  it ;  the  auld  House 
is  an  auld  friend  to  me,"  I  answered,  complacently. 
"  Naunty  Marget  lets  me  arrange  the  books  yonder, 
and  when  she  goes  to  the  May-tide  Fair,  at  Askrigg, 
or  to  the  Hawes  market  whiles  on  a  Tuesday,  she'll 
leave  me  in  charge  the  day,  and  I  aye  spend  it  in 
here."       " 

"  In  this  lonely,  dusk  old  room  ?  Surely  you 
might  choose  some  more  cheerful  spot, — or  is  it  all 
equally  dreary  ?" 

"  It's  no  for  a  stranger  to  lightlie  Wearithorne," 
I  said,  hotly,  my  cheeks  aglow  for  the  honor  of  the 
old  place.  "  It's  the  pride  of  the  country-side.  It's 
many  a  cheery  spot  there  is  about  the  House ;  but 
none  so  grand  as  this,  to  my  thinking.  And  dreary ! 
why,  there  are  the  books,  and,  if  one  were  a  bit 
lonesome,  there  are  the  pictures,  too." 

He  had  gone  forward  toward  these  as  I  spoke, 
and  he  now  stood  looking  at  them  by  the  firelight. 

"  There  is  a  portrait-gallery  besides  ?" 

"  A  grand  hall,  throng  with  Lethwaites,  besides 
those  four  there.   Yon  proud  lady  is  the  Mrs.  Leth- 


n 


20 


WEARITHORNE. 


waJte  now,"  I  added,  coming  forward,  as  I  had  seen 
Marget  do  the  honors  to  visitors  now  and  then. 

"  Yon  proud  lady !"  he  repeated,  and  his  eyes 
had  a  twinkle  in  them  as  they  dropped  down  on 
mine.     "  And  the  lad  there,  is  he  proud  too  ?" 

"  I'm  feared  he  is  not  proud  enough  by  half," — 
the  conversation  I  had  overheard  round  Marget's 
fireside  coming  back  to  me.  "  That's  to  say,  only 
I'll  none  believe  it,  but  they  do  say  he's  to  put  up 
a  mill  here  in  the  dale.  After  biding  away  this 
many  a  year — and  it's  no  a  right  thing  for  land- 
owners like  the  Lethwaites  of  Wearithorne  to  bide 
away,  and  leave  lands  and  tenants  to  go  awry,  as 
they  are  bound  to  do,"  I  added,  decidedly,  recalling 
a  sharp  complaint  which  had  once,  and  but  once, 
escaped  Naunty  Marget, — "after  this,  for  a  Leth- 
waite  to  come  back,  and,  instead  of  just  guiding  the 
estate,  like  his  forbears " 

I  stopped,  suddenly  aware  that  I  was  doing  the 
honors  after  another  fashion  than  Marget's.  A 
Lethwaite's  will  was,  to  her,  as  little  to  be  ques- 
tioned as  a  law  of  Nature. 

"  And  so  a  mill  is  thought  a  bad  prop  to  a  fall- 
ing house,  eh,  lassie  ?" 

The  tone  was  grave  and  thoughtful ;  but  I  an- 
swered it  quickly. 

"There's  naught  tottering  about  Wearithorne. 
The  Master's  coming  home  with  both  hands  full 
from  foreign  parts.  And — happen  it's  you  have 
come  to  build  the  mill  ?"  I  interrupted  myself. 


WEARITHORNE. 


21 


"  You  are  right.   I  have  come  to  build  the  mill," 

"Are  you  for  guiding  the  master  that  gate  ?"  I 
asked,  quickly.  Then,  seeing  him  puzzled,  "  Is  it 
your  advice,  I  mean,  leads  him  to  this  ?" 

It  was  as  though  my  earnestness  amused  him, 
for  he  laughed  a  little,  as  he  answered, — 

"  Solely  and  entirely  my  advice.  I  am,  I  may  say, 
responsible  for  the  whole  business." 

Certainly  this  man  was  to  be  looked  upon  in  the 
light  of  an  enemy  to  all  our  dale.  To  thrust  his 
great  grinding  wheels  in  here,  and  ruin  the  mar- 
ket for  our  spinning  and  weaving! 

But  when  I  did  look  up  at  him,  he  did  not  alto- 
gether resemble  the  relentless  tyrant  I  had  been 
figuring  to  myself,  crushing  down  the  whole  coun- 
try-side beneath  the  groaning  weight  of  his  ma- 
chinery. He  would  carry  out  his  will ;  there  was 
that  in  the  strong  lines  of  the  face,  and  the  steady 
light  in  the  gray  eyes.  But  was  it  like  to  be  a 
cruel  will?  Could  Adam  o'  Linn  Brig  and  the 
others  possibly  be  wrong  ? 

Yes,  I  hated  the  man,  I  said  to  myself,  and  I 
turned  from  him  rather  decidedly,  when  he  gave 
me  the  last  reply.  I  was  moving  away,  with  some 
murmur  of  sending  Marget  to  him  if  he  wanted  her. 

"  I  saw  your  old  friend  some  moments  ago,"  he 
replied.  "  Don't  call  her  from  her  knot  of  gos- 
sips, busy  knitting  over  my  arrival.  You  are 
going  ?  Yes ;  but  first  you  must  forgive  me  this 
mill-business,  and  next  you  must  tell  me  your 


r< 


22 


WEARITHORNE. 


\ 


name.  You  are  from  the  neighborhood, — from 
some  part  of  the  Wearithorne  estate,  perhaps  ?"*  . 

"  I  am  Nannette  o'  Kester  o'  Mallerstang  Hag," 
said  I,  stopping,  with  my  hand  on  the  latch  of  the 
door,  and  turning,  with  rather  a  defiant  ignoring 
of  the  first  demand. 

"  But  what  a  very  long  name,  lassie  \  Nannette 
O'Kester  O'Mallerstang  Hag !  Surely  the  whole 
is  rather  inappropriate.  Fie  on  our  dale  names ! 
O'Mallerstang  Hag !" 

I  laughed  outright,  forgetful  of  my  righteous 
indignation. 

"  Eh,  but  that  is  not  my  name,  of  course.  I  just 
belong  to  'Kester  of  the  Mallerstang  Hag — that  is 
the  highest  point  in  Helbeck  Lund — across  the 
moor  yonder." 

"  Now  I  begin  to  understand.  You  are  Kester's 
Nannette.  And  the  Hag — was  that  not  once  a  part 
of  the  Wearithorne  possessions  ?" 

"  Mrs.  Lethwaite's  own, — left  to  her  by  the  old 
Master ;  for  she  was  of  the  Lethwaite  blood,  as 
well  as  her  husband.  She  let  Uncle  Kester  buy 
out  the  Hag  years  and  years  ago." 

"And  what,  then,  is  your  surname,  Nannette, 
since  it  is  not  o'  Kester  o'  Mallerstang  Hag  ?" 

I  was  puzzled.  I  had  never  given  a  thought  to 
that  before.  I  could  only  say  that  I  had  never 
heard  it, — that  Uncle  Kester  was  just  Kester  o* 
Mallerstang,  as  Adam  was  Adam  o'  Linn  Brig, 
and  Davie,  o'  Burtree-syke.    And  in  the  midst  of 


WEARITHORNE. 


my  explanation,  the  latch  was  lifted  under  my 
hand,  the  door  opened,  and  Marget  stood  there  on 
the  threshold.  * 

Naunty  Marget — I  see  now,  as  I  saw  then,  the 
quaint,  small  figure,  in  kirtle  which  made  no 
attempt  to  hide  the  buckled  shoes  and  tight  blue 
stockings ;  and  over  the  kirtle  the  crimson  short- 
gown,  with  its  kerchief  pinned  across,  as  snowy  as 
the  high-crowned  cap  itself.  That  cap  framed  in, 
with  its  edge  of  real  lace,  a  face  wrinkled  and 
round  and  rosy  as  a  frosted  winter  apple, — with 
somewhat  of  the  tartness  of  a  winter  apple,  too,  in 
the  glint  of  the  eyes  beneath  bands  of  hair  as 
white  as  cr«nklf  ^  hoarfrost,  and  in  the  crisp,  clear 
voice.  • 

"  Guide  us !"  she  exclaimed,  the  instant  she  saw 
me.  "  How  came  the  bairn  in  here  ?  Mester  Miles, 
but  I  wus  ye  wunna  think  hard " 

Mester  Miles ! 

I  heard  but  little  of  the  excuses  she  was  offer- 
ing for  my  intrusion.  "  Mester  Miles  !"  Then  it 
was  to  the  Master  of  Wearithorne  himself  that  I 
had  been  explaining  his  duty,  recounting  his  sins 
of  omission  and  commission.  I  stood  ready  to  cry 
with  shame  and  confusion  of  face. 

That  telltale  face  must  have  betrayed  me;  for 
he  was  looking  down  upon  me  kindly,  and  say- 
ing,— 

"  Our  good  Marget  is  rather  hard  upon  me,  in 
believing  me  churl  enough  to  be  sorry  you  should 


f» 


1 


24 


WEARITHORNE. 


make  friends  with  my  books  in  all  this  time  I  have 
neglected  them.  I  hope  you  will  still  come  for 
them  at  your  own  pleasure."  (Here  Margct  quietly 
shook  her  head  at  me.) 

"There,  run  away  now,  child,"  she  said,  in 
speech  which,  if  more  audible,  was  no  whit  more 
intelligible  than  that  gesture.  "Bj-le  a  blink  in 
the  spence, — ^the  folk  are  gone  the  now, — and  I'll 
set  thee  part  o'  the  way  home." 

I  heard  her,  without  the  most  distant  intention 
of  waiting  for  her  and  perhaps  her  lecture.  I  had 
drawn  back  when  Mr.  Lethwaite  directed  his  at- 
tention to  Marget ;  and  now,  catching  up  my  hat 
where  I  had  let  it  fall  before  the  pile  of  books,  I 
stole  out  of  the  room. 

Glancing  over  my  shoulder  as  I  went,  I  saw  that 
Miles  Lethwaite  was  stooping  for  the  book  I  had 
left  upon  the  hearth-rug.  But  if  I  thought,  in 
glancing  back  thus,  to  find  the  Master  looking  after 
me,  I  was  mistaken.  He  had  resumed  his  leaning 
posture  against  the  mantel,  and  was  speaking  to 
Marget,  whirling  the  leaves  of  the  book  over  idly 
while  he  stood. 


^^ 


II. 


All  the  wind  makes  solemn  moan, — heart  in-chimeth  to  its  tone, 

"  Deserted." 
Dreary  gloaming  settleth  down, — shutteth  out  the  gleaming  town, 
Shutteth  in  the  moorland  brown 

Where  the  heather  lieth  dead,  and  the  nest  the  wild  swan  fled, 

Deserted, 
Rattles  dry  the  reeds  among,  that  all  greenly  overhung 
Once,  where  summer  burnie  sung. 

Hushed  that  song.    The  pebbles  strown  mark  the  bumie's  bed 

alone, 
Deserted, 
And  my  life  its  summer  race  ran  from  out  yon  greenwood  chase. 
And  cold  gravestones  mark  its  place. 

*'T  TNCLE  Kester." 

^  Further  than  that^  even  my  audacity  would 
not  go,  unless  he  held  out  some  reply,  as  the  des- 
pot of  old  extended  his  sceptre  that  his  maidens 
might  proceed.  This  despot  of  Mallerstang — 
ruler  absolute  over  Letty,  the  middle-aged  maid- 
of-all-work,  and  his  little  niece — was  not  wont  to 
hold  out  any  very  gracious  sceptre.  But  he  did 
grant  a  hearing  after  his  own  fashion. 

"  Humph !"  As  who  should  say,  "  Women  will 
talk, — it's  their  infirmity;  Vsd  be  indulgent  to  it 
this  once." 

3  (25) 


i! 


26 


WEARITHORNE. 


"  Uncle  Kester,  Wearithorne  has  getten  its  owner 
back." 

Kester's  pipe  fell  to  the  floor  with  the  great  start 
he  gave.  At  which,  I  glanced  across  to  him  curi- 
ously. 

It  was  dim  there  in  the  house-place.  The  great 
chimney,  projecting  with  its  two  walls  five  or  six 
feet  into  the  room,  threw  a  black  shadow  across  to 
me  here  in  the  deep-cushioned  window.  But  the 
light  was  full  on  Kester's  heavy,  blue-smocked 
figure  in  the  arm-chi.  r,  with  old  Rockie  blinking 
up  between  bis  paws  in  the  opposite  wide  chimney- 
corner.  ;The  peat-fire  glow  did  not  steal  out  far 
enough  to  chase  all  the  shadows  over  the  white 
stone  floor,  nor  to  peer  into  the  space  yonder  where 
the  cumbrous  black-and-gilded  dresser,  and  chest 
of  drawers,  and  queer,  quamt  desk,  and  the  benches 
set  out  in  a  souare  at  tho  far  end,  were  almost  lost 
in  the  wide  emptiness.  As  for  my  window,  it  hardly 
lessened  the  gloom,  with  its  checker  of  diamond- 
panes  on  the  rocky  courtyard  in  front,  and  its  out- 
look over  the  rugged,  barren  gorge  of  Helbeck 
Lund,  which  sank  abruptly  down  beyond  the  court- 
yard. Any  time  within  my  memory,  if  I  had 
glanced  across  the  twilight  room,  just  the  same 
sight  would  have  met  me;  only,  I  suppose,  in 
earlier  days,  Rockie  was  younger, — never  Kester. 
They  were  always  the  same, — those  evenings  we 
spent  alone  together  on  the  Hag, — Letty  having 
departed  with  the  day  to  her  own  cottage  under- 


WEARITHORNE. 


I  its  owner 

^reat  start 
him  curi- 

The  great 
ive  or  six 
^  across  to 
But  the 
;-smocked 
;  blinking 
chimney- 
al  out  far 
the  white 
der  where 
and  chest 
e  benches 
mosi  lost 
,  it  hardly 
diamond- 
d  its  out- 
Helbeck 
the  court- 
if  I  had 
the  same 
ppose,  in 
r  Kester. 
nings  we 
y  having 
re  under- 


neath the  eastern  slope;  those  evenings  when 
Kester  would  smoke  his  pipe  steadily  on  and  on, 
throwing  me  a  word  about  as  often,  and  after  the 
same  fashion,  as  he,  niggard  as  he  was,  would 
throw  a  bone  to  Rockie,  who,  in  his  corner  oppo- 
site, had  been  growing  old  in  patient  waiting  ever 
since  I  could  remember. 

But  certainly  it  was  not  often  I  could  remember 
that  any  words  of  mine  were  of  such  moment  that 
at  them  Kester  had  started  and  let  his  pipe  fall. 

But  he  recovered  himself  and  it  almost  before 
I  had  space  to  wonder, — refilled,  relighted,  and 
puffed  away  again,  as  if  his  equanimity  had  been 
in  no  wise  shaken.  Yet  that  did  not  blind  me.  If 
I  had  told  him  Ivelet  Hall  was  opened  once  again ; 
or  if  I  had  brought  him  any  tidings  of  Davie  o* 
Burtree-syke, — who  was  Uncle  Kester's  enemy-in- 
chief,  because  his  nearest  neighbor, — the  news 
would  not  have  won  more  than  another  humph, 
and  the  pipe  would  never  have  been  moved 
thereby.  What  interest,  then,  could  Wearithorne 
have  for  him  ? 

Whether  he  knew  I  had  not  broached  the  topic 
merely  to  let  it  fall,  and  shrewdly  guessed  I  would 
take  it  up  .igain  if  left  to  myself,  he  did  not  reply, 
but  lounged  with  his  head  against  the  chair-back, 
his  half-shut  eyes  turned  upward  to  the  beams 
overhead.  I  saw  his  trap,  but  fell  into  it  deliber- 
ately. 

"  I  am  thinking  you  ken  all  about  them.  Uncle 


28 


WEARITHORNE. 


t  I 


Kester.  You'll  none  have  forgot  the  old  Squire's 
time,  when  the  young  lady  made  that  flitting  with 
her  braw  lover  from  far  away.  D'you  no  think  it 
were  hare'  in  the  old  Squire  to  cast  her  off,  and 
leave  Wearithorne  and  all  to  only  a  cousin,  instead 
of  his  own  granddaughter? — though  for  sure  the 
Master  is  of  the  Lethwaite  blood  by  father  and 
by  mother  as  well.  But  do  you  reckon  he  is  come 
back  to  stay  ?  And  will  the  House  be  as  gay  as 
the  grand  places  one  reads  of?" 

He  answered  me,  puffing  slowly  between  the 
words — 

"  Ye  mun  tell  me  first  if  t'  mistress  be  yon.  He's 
no  like  to  bide  there  his  lone." 

"  But  that  I  didna  hear." 

"Ye  saw  naught  o'  any  leddy  there,  lass?" 

Certainly  the  subject  seemed  to  interest  him, 
who  seldom  thought  it  worth  his  while  to  listen  to 
anything  I  had  to  say.  He  was  leaning  forward 
for  my  answer  now. 

"  Nay,  I  saw  naught.  He  was  his  lone  there  in 
the  library.  Uncle  Kester," — with  a  seemingly 
abrupt  change  of  subject, — "what  is  my  name 
besides  Nannette  ?" 

He  pushed  his  chair  back,  staring  at  me  hard, 
staring  with  a  gathering  scowl  upon  his  heavy 
brows. 

"  Her  name  ?     Her  name  besides  Nannette  ?" 

The  effect  of  my  question  was  so  dispropor- 
tionate to  the  cause,  that  I  was  slow  to  believe 


WEARITHORNE. 


29 


Kester  really  incensed  by  it.     He  must  have  mis-  " 
understood  me. 

"  My  surname,  I  mean,"  I  hastened  to  explain. 
"Though  we  fash  ourselves  but  little  with  sur- 
names here  in  the  dales,  yet  I  must  have  one,  I 
suppose ;  and  still  I  never  heard  it." 

"  Who's  putten  that  question  to  thee  ?" 

There  was  that  in  the  tone  of  his  voice  which 
made  mine  shake,  as  I  replied, — 

"  I  was  up  yonder  in  the  library  at  Wearithorne, 
and  Mr.  Lethwaite  asked " 

I  broke  off  for  the  curse  growled  out  at  me. 
Kester  said,  furiously, — 

"  Lethwaite  ?  Up  by  yon  wi'  him  ?  Nay,  Fse 
none  ha'  that,  ye  daft  htmpie ;  t'  neb  o'  ye's  ne'er 
out  o'  mischief." 

"But,  Uncle  Kester,  I  was  in  no  mischief.  I 
went  up  yonder  to  see  Naunty  Marget." 

"  Marget  or  Lethwaite,  housekeeper  or  master, 
it's  no  odds  to  me.  Thou's  feel  t*  weight  o'  my 
hand  yet,  an  I  catch  thee  stealing  off  to  Weari- 
thorne, hearkening  an'  gossiping  wi'  a  wheen 
ne'er-do-well  gallants  as  that.  Off  to  thy  chamer, 
now,  and  keep  away  fro'  Wearithorne,  or  we's 
make  a  moithering  mess  between  us,  thou  an'  L 
Now,  mind;  dunna  let  my  warning  leak  out  o* 
thy  silly  head." 

For  the  instant  I  thought  to  set  him  at  defiance. 
But  there  was  no  mistaking  the  scowl  that  drew 
the  shaggy  grizzled  brows  together,  the  clenched 


\ 


I    ■■ 


^i  'Hi 


30 


WEARITHORNE. 


grasp  that  tightened  on  the  arm  of  the  chair,  as  he 
raised  himself  slowly.  "  Thou's  feel  t'  weight  o'  my 
hand  yet." 

I  did  not  wait  for  it.  I  brushed  past  him,  out 
through  the  open  door,  before  he  could  lay  hold 
on  me.  I  heard  him  stumbling  about  in  the  waning 
firelight,  and  cursing  me  while  he  stumbled,  for  I 
had  snatched  up  the  one  dim  candle  on  the  table 
as  I  passed,  and  slammed  the  door  behind  me. 

My  "  silly  head"  was  puzzling  greatly  over  it,  as 
I  obeyed  at  least  one  part  of  his  warning,  and  went 
up-stairs  to  my  chamber  under  the  roof.  There 
are  but  the  two  stories  beneath  this  old  peat  thatch. 
There  is  many  a  nook  and  cranny,  however,  for  the 
lodging  of  the  wind;  and  just  at  an  angle  in  the 
wide  stone  stairs,  that  same  free  guest  rushed  past, 
and  blew  out  my  candle. 

Many  a  time,  dreading  the  dark,  I  would  have 
stolen  down-stairs  again  after  a  space;  for  Kester's 
rages  usually  soon  cooled  into  the  contemptuous 
indifference  with  which  he  would  suffer  me  to  creep 
back,  as  if  unobserved,  to  my  old  seat  in  the  chim- 
ney-nook. 

But  to-night  I  did  not  dare  return,  and  I  threw 
my  latticed  window  wide,  and  leaned  out  for  some 
break  in  the  gloom.  But  clouds  had  gathered; 
there  was  not  even  the  pale  spectre  of  a  shrouded 
moon  to  break  up  the  dull  gray,  and  on  the  moor 
the  low,  red  glimmer  in  the  peat-huts  was  already 
smothered  for  the  night.     But  presently  I  caught 


Hi 


WEARITHORNE. 


31 


a  far-off  twinkling  light  among  the  limes  over  the 
moor, — a  friendly  glance  from  Wearithorne. 

For  Wearithorne  was  my  old  friend ;  never 
Wearithorne  to  me,  but  always  a  sure  haven  of 
restful  dreams,  such  as  the  weary  never  have.  Yet 
the  owners  must  have  found  reality  in  the  name, 
certainly, — the  Weary  Thorn  or  stronghold;  for 
it  had  been  left  to  itself  more  than  twice  or  thrice 
for  a  long  stretch  of  years  since  its  first  building, 
which  tradition  tells  of,  by  the  knight  who,  weary 
and  restless  even  in  his  grave,  is  said  still  to  haunt 
the  north  terrace  sometimes  on  a  stormy  night. 
But  to  me  Wearithorne  was  just  an  old,  dear, 
peaceful  refuge.  Afterward,  it  might  have  its 
aching  memories;  but  that  night  of  which  I  write, 
I  knelt  on  and  watched  its  cheery  light.  Would 
Kester  have  me  shut  even  that  out  ? 

It  shut  itself  out.  But  it  lingered  awhile  first. 
It  had  been  shining  there  like  a  star.  There  were 
no  stars  then,  below  or  above.  But  Kester  must 
have  found  another  light,  for  there  was  a  pallid 
checker  thrown  from  the  house-place  across  the 
court  beneath.  How  unusually  late  Kester  was 
sitting  up! 

I  dare  say  I  had  been  there  long  enough  for 
him  to  think  me  fallen  asleep,  for  just  then  he 
came  out  into  the  court,  closing  the  house-door 
cautiously.  If  he  had  given  it  a  bang  behind  him, 
my  curiosity  would  never  have  awakened  ;  but  as 
it  was,  it  started  into  full  life  when  I  saw  him  stand 


\. 


Ilil 

'llii , 


I        ! 


32 


WEARITHORNE. 


looking  up  at  my  window,  from  which  I  had 
involuntarily  drawn  back,  and  then,  with  delib- 
erately noiseless  tread,  take  his  way  across  the 
court. 

I  watched.  He  went  to  the  scar's  brink,  just 
where  my  wonted  path  to  Wearithorne  stoops  like 
a  ladder  to  the  cleugh  of  Helbeck  Lund.  Few 
could  have  taken  that  way  down  the  Hag's  steep 
face,  save  in  the  giddy  plunge  the  foamy  gill  makes 
there.  So  burly,  heavy  Kester  turned  him  about — 
for  the  more  circuitous  path  down  the  meadow- 
slopes  behind  the  Hag,  and  so  round  the  northern 
verge  of  ]H[elbeck  Lund  ?  I  would  see.  If  it  were 
to  Wearithorne,  the  old  clock  on  the  stair  must 
ring  out  twelve  before  Kester  could  return. 

Yet  perhaps  he  had  come  back  unseen  by  me? 
I  could  creep  down  noiselessly,  and  find  out,  so 
that  I  might  not  watch  in  vain. 

Rockie  just  moved  his  tail  and  blinked  up  at 
me  drowsily  from  the  hearth ;  his  master's  place 
opposite  was  empty,  even  of  his  chair.  That  had 
been  dragged  forward  to  the  old  desk  I  had  never 
seen  unlocked  before.  But  the  lid  was  up  now, 
and  a  candle  flickered  on  papers  strewn  about 
confusedly. 

All  in  the  same  handwriting  ;  all  with  the  yellow 
tinge  of  time  and  faded  characters.  Who  respects 
a  letter  when  the  writer's  hand  is  crumbled  in  the 
dust  ?  But  the  soul  thus  laid  bare — Is  the  curtain 
of  the  grave  indeed  so  dense  ?  If  other  eyes  than 


WEARITHORNE. 


33 


mine  could  ever  rest  upon  these  pages,  should  I 
sleep  on  in  the  grave  and  never  know  ? 

Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  have  drawn  nearer,  but 
it  was  without  intent  that  my  eyes  fell  on  a  paper, 
and  saw,  in  the  clear  writing  that  is  read  at  the 
first  glance : 

"  My  poor  little  one,  who  soon  will  be  alone  in 
the  worlft,  if  you  do  not  come  for  her " 

Kester  had  come  for  me  when  my  mother  lay  a- 
dying, — so  he  had  told  the  neighbors,  Marget  said. 
From  whom,  then,  but  from  my  mother,  could  this 
defaced  fragment  of  a  letter  be?  I  had  nothing  of 
hers,  not  so  much  as  a  memory,  not  so  much  as  a 
word  wrung  out  from  Kester.  Should  he,  then, 
keep  these  back  from  me  ? 

The  candle  was  sputtering  low  on  the  shelf  above 
the  desk.  So  I  dropped  down  on  the  hearth,  to 
read  by  the  peat-glow,  that  only  made  a  circle  of 
light  about  me  and  left  the  rest  in  shade.  I  stole 
a  timid  glance  round  now  and  then.  But  though 
at  first  I  started  at  the  scamper  of  a  rat  behind  the 
wainscot,  as  I  read  on,  the  old,  lonely,  shadowy  room 
faded  far  away  from  me.  I  was  living  a  new  life, — 
yet  in  the  shadow  of  a  grave. 

There  was  but  little  in  the  packet.  What  there 
was,  I  mastered,  crouching  there  and  never  moving 
until  I  had  finished  all. 

I  could  not  read  at  first.  I  could  but  gaze  and 
gaze,  as  though  I  saw  my  mother's  hand  stretched 
back  to  me  out  of  the  haze  of  all  these  years. 


I; 
ItJIill^ 


)        i 


!l;lli 


; 

;-|.: 

1 

Uh 

! 

1 

\        j 

'        -■ 

i 

\      \ 

34 


WEARITHORNE. 


And  had  I  not  always  been  the  thing  of  naught 
that  I  was  now  ?  My  slow  tears  fell  in  soft  self- 
pity  there  where  she  had  pitied  me.  "  My  poor 
little  one."  No  one  had  ever  said  such  words  to 
me  before, — not  even  my  one  friend  Marget.  Per- 
haps Marget,  indeed,  never  knew  I  needed  them  ; 
perhaps  she  thought  that,  for  the  life  I  led,  I  re- 
quired to  be  hardened,  not  softened.  For  herself, 
she  would  have  scorned  a  sympathy  that  found 
vent  in  words,  and  believed  honestly  in  the  Psalm- 
ist's "  rather  smite  me  friendly,  and  reprove  me." 
And  so  that  tenderness  came  to  me  as  a  revela- 
tion.        \ 

My  mother!  I  had  thought  of  her  now  and 
again, — envied  the  girls  I  saw  kneeling  at  the  kirk, 
or  walking  in  the  lanes  beside  broad,  comfortable, 
cheery,  country  dames,  whose  slow  eyes  would 
take  on  a  smile  of  pride  in  resting  on  them.  But  I 
had  been  wont  to  put  away  such  thoughts  in  scorn. 
I  knew  Kester, — I  knew,  too,  the  whole  country- 
side said  he  and  his  brother  were  just  such  birds  of 
evil  omen  as  one  would  look  to  see  fly  abroad  out 
of  the  same  nest.  I  hated  Kester.  I  believed  as 
firmly  as  our  neighbors  that  a  curse  was  over  Mal- 
lerstang,  and  no  good  could  come  out  of  it.  My 
mother  was  linked  with  it  in  my  mind ;  for  what 
could  she  be  who  could  wed  a  man  like  Kester  ? — 
Kester,  whom  I  scorned  even  more  than  I  hated, — 
than  I  feared.  I  drew  my  breath  hard,  kneeling 
in  the  kirk,  when  I  could  not  choose  but  hear  the 


WEARITHORNE. 


35 


solemn  "  Honor  thy  father  and  thy  mother."   What 
honor,  but  forgctfulness,  for  mine  ? 

But  I  read  on  now,  and  envied  no  one  any  more. 
My  mother,  in  her  unknown  grave,  was  nearer  to 
me  than  those  dames  were  to  the  daughters  I  had 
watched  with  wistful  gaze  at  kirk  and  market- 
place. My  mother!  Sleeping  on,  her  eyes  shut 
to  the  world  in  which  I  am  alone,  surely  some 
dream  must  come  to  her  of  her  little  one ;  some' 
thought  must  creep  out  to  me  from  her,  even  cur- 
tained in  beneath  the  turf  that  haps  her  from  me, 
— in  her  unknown  grave. 

I  read  on,  crouching  in  the  dull  blaze,  and 
pressing  open,  on  the  hearth,  those  pages  where 
the  glow  might  fall  on  them.  Now  and  again  my 
other  hand  stole  up  to  brush  away  tears  that  would 
spring  unbidden  between  me  and  my  mother's  words. 
And  then  it  fell  to  my  side,  and  I  started;  for 
Rockie  had  thrust  his  muzzle  lovingly  against  it, 
edging  nearer  from  his  corner.  I  stroked  the 
shaggy  head  close  to  my  knee.  My  mother's  ten- 
derness had  made  me  very  tender  for  the  moment. 

I  think  even  then  I  would  have  borne  all  her 
words  with  me  always,  though  that  stained  and 
faded  packet  were  replaced  in  the  desk.  It  is  long 
since  I  last  looked  on  it,  yet  I  think  I  could  set 
down  its  every  line  as  it  was  written.  But  of  what 
avail  ?  "  Their  memorial  is  perished  with  them." 
To  what  purpose  were  it  to  seek  to  revive  it  here  ? 

Yet  they  write  themselves  down  as  I  glance  on 


36 


WEARITHORNE, 


this  blank  page.  I  see  that  letter  to  Kester,  with- 
out date  or  signature,  and  breaking  off  as  if  the 
hand  that  penned  it  had  been  stopped  by  the 
sudden  clasping  of  Death's  fingers.  And  I  see 
the  fragment  of  a  journal  gayly  begun  in  the  quiet 
of  a  country  life.  In  the  smooth  and  even  flow  of 
such  a  life  the  shadow  of  a  passing  event  is  re- 
flected far,  as  on  a  placid  river  a  sail  throws  its 
magnified  semblance  nearly  across  from  bank  to 
bank. 

A  passing  event  ?  Nay ;  but  it  brooded, — deep- 
ened,— ^presently  darkened  every  page  with  its  un- 
defined shadow  of  evil  to  come. 

And  here  a  hundred  wondering  thoughts  rushed 
in  to  interrupt  me.  What  was  Kester's  brother, 
that  my  mother,  such  as  she  was  written  down 
here,  could  have  been  deceived  in  him  for  an  in- 
stant ?  Where  was  the  Hall  at  which  he  could  be 
a  guest  ?  Could  he  have  made  his  way  there  as 
an  unknown  adventurer  ?  If  I  dared  ask  Kester ! 
If! 

After  this  were  briefer  and  brief'^'r  'entries.  No 
more  glowing  glimpses  of  the  fells,  or  of  the  deep- 
ening blush  of  the  ling  over  the  moo/;  no  more 
jotting  down  of  legend,  ballad,  or  romance;  for 
the  girl  was  living  her  own.  So  do  we  all, — a 
true  romance,  even  though  it  seem  the  dullest 
prose  to  passers-by,  who  read  by  snatches,  as  some 
gust  whirls  an  open  leaf.  But  we  can  never  tell  it 
to  another.     It  would  not  be  our  own  if  we  could 


WEARITHORNE. 


%f 


hold  it  out  from  us,  and  scan  and  criticise,  and 
point  the  moral,  as  if  the  experience  that  made  it 
had  not  grown  to  be  a  part  of  ourselves. 

And  then  the  darkness  of  the  valley  of  the 
shadow  of  death  on  the  last  page : 

"  So  near  the  end,  and  so  alone,  save  for  the  little 
one.  *  Nothing  but  harshness  for  me  at  home, — 
no  love  any  more,'  I  wrote  above.  The  words  were 
prophetic ;  but  it  was  I  threw  off  the  care  I  have 
lived  to  see  was  the  truest  then. 

"  I  have  not  even  heard  of  my  forfeited  home — 
of  the  old  man — for  this  year  past.  I  have  made 
no  inquiry,  since  I  dared  not  venture  back.  But  I 
have  written  to  Kester  to  come  to  me,  and  I  must 
hope  he  will  undertake  my  errand,  faithfully,  as 
one  will  keep  a  dying  message.  If  he  will  take 
my  little  one  to  my  lost  home, — if  he  who  was  as  a 
father  to  me,  lives,  and  will  be  a  father  to  my  child, 
— I  think  I  should  know  it,  even  in  the  grave. 

"  It  is  for  him  this  last  page  is  written, — to  him 
I  will  send  this  journal,  brought  with  me  when  I 
left  home.  For  no  other  eyes  than  his.  I  would 
have  no  one  else  know  how  my  husband  and  the 
father  of  my  child  forsook  me,  when  for  him  I  was 
disinherited." 

That  last  part, — so  unlike  the  blithe  beginning, — 
and,  she  said,  "  for  no  other  eyes  than  his."  While 
still  I  knelt  there  on  the  hearth,  I  tore  it  from  the 
rest,  and  dropped  it  on  the  embers.  No  other  eyes 
should  look  on  it  henceforth. 

4 


F 


38 


WEARITHORNE. 


H  t: 


III 


I  watched  it  smoulder  and  flare  up,  then  fall 
back  to  ashes  black  as  the  record  it  had  borne. 
She  said,  "  I  would  have  no  one  know."  In  her 
words  was  none  of  that  fierce  anger  throbbing  in 
me  as  I  flung  the  paper  to  the  flames.  I  forgot  the 
traitor  to  her  was  .my  own  father.  I  think  I  have 
never  rightly  remembered  it.  I  remembered  only 
he  was  traitor  to  her, — more  cruel  than  even  Kes- 
ter  to  me.  Kester — Kester's  brother, — how  could 
she  have  ever  linked  her  fate  with  theirs  ? 

The  journal  had  been  difficult  to  make  out.  Not 
that  it  was  illegibly  written,  but  that  where  her 
lover's  name  and  every  other  name  of  person  or  of 
place  had  been  set  down,  the  word  was  erased,  and 
so  roughly  that  oftentimes  the  sentence  or  the  sense 
of  the  page  was  obscure.  There  was  but  the  one 
exception, — the  one  mention  of  Kester, — probably 
overlooked,  since  it  vi^as  less  legible  than  the  rest ; 
and  I  had  to  stoop  nearer  to  the  fire  to  decipher  it. 
No  other  names  remained,  but  were  erased  so 
roughly  that  one  could  hardly  think  it  the  work 
of  her  hand.  There  were,  moreover,  blurs  and 
marks  upon  the  pages,  that  made  me  suspect  Kes- 
ter of  fingering  them.  Could  he  have  any  motive 
in  blotting  out  those  names  ? 

The  very  thought  of  Kester  startled  me.  I  had 
forgotten  him  this  while,  but  I  sprang  up  now,  and 
with  a  complacent  glance  at  the  candle,  which 
would  be  burnt  out  in  another  moment,  I  went  up 
to  my  own  room. 


WEARITHORNE. 


39 


Perhaps  Kester  would  come  in  in  the  dark,  lock 
his  desk,  and  never  discover  the  l^jSs  of  the  packet 
until — well,  I  knew  Kester  went  but  seldom  to 
that  desk.  He  was  not  much  given  to  reading 
anything  whatever,  and  he  might  not  know  of  the 
loss  for  any  length  of  time,  i  bolted  my  door  fast 
upon  his  anger  for  that  night,  at  all  events.  After- 
ward, if  he  did  miss  the  letters,  1  would  own  to 
having  them ;  for  were  they  not  more  mine  than 
his  ?  But  it  was  as  well  to  put  off  that  evil  hour 
with  a  fast-drawn  bolt. 

I  listened  for  his  coming  after  I  was  safely  there. 
I  had  lost  my  interest  in  his  walk,  to  Wearithorne 
or  not  to  Wearithorne.  I  was  waiting  only  to  learn 
whether  he  would  discover  the  loss  of  my  packet 
at  once. 

The  clock  struck  twelve.  I  had  thrown  myself 
upon  the  bed,  hiding  those  papers  under  my  pillow, 
leaning  my  cheek  upon  them,  listening  again  and 
over  again,  between  sleeping  and  waking,  to  the 
words  they  spoke.  And  I  had  fallen  asleep,  per- 
haps in  the  first  doze,  which  always  seems  to  have 
lasted  so  long  when  one  is  awakened  from  it;  when 
I  started,  open-eyed  at  once.  Was  that  a  creaking, 
an  ascending  foot  ? 

I  lay  awake  and  listened  a  long  time  after  that, 
and  then  I  felt  assured  it  must  have  been  Kester's 
step  on  the  stair  which  had  aroused  me.  Where 
could  he  have  been,  then,  save  at  Wearithorne  ? 


ii !  „!i; 


'i-i 


ll!    ii|l  ;    •; 


III. 

— the  shattered  panes  patter  to  the  dreary  rains, 
"Deserted!" 
And  the  wind  is  whistling  shrill,  curtains  through,  the  spider  still 
Droppeth  to  the  window-sill ; 

And  the  hospitable  door  standeth  open  evermore. 

Deserted. 
Yet  guests  enter  even  there, — undeineath  the  great  stone  stair 
Deaia-owl  hideth  from  the  glare. 

WAS   I: — must  I  not  be — dreaming?    What 
could  it  all  mean  ? 

Kester  had  been  calling  me  most  vociferously- 
some  ten  minutes  before.  And  I,  with  a  guilty- 
conscience  concerning  the  porridge,  which  I  had 
quite  forgotten  since  Letty  left  it  in  my  charge  as 
she  went  down  to  her  own  cottage,  had  crept  away, 
hiding  myself  in  the  shippon,  if  not  out  of  reach 
of  Kester's  voice,  at  least  beyond  that  of  his  heavy 
hand.  Let  him  fume  over  the  porridge,  which  was 
smoked,  perhaps.  That  he  should  be  suppered 
thus  unsavorily,  concerned  me  just  as  little  as  that 
I  should  go  supperless  concerned  him.  For  not  a 
doubt  but  that  Uncle  Kester  would  make  haste  to 
throw  out  the  last  drop  of  which,  scorched  or  not 
scorched,  I  might  perhaps  have  managed  to  make 
my  evening  meal,  keen-set  as  I  was  with  my  late 
ramble  and  with  fasting  since  a  noontide  dinner. 
(40) 


WEARITHORNE. 


41 


But,  yet,  what  was  hunger,  compared  to  the  need 
of  keeping  out  of  Uncle  Kester's  sight  until  his 
wrath  should  have  time  to  cool  down  ? 

So  I  had  ensconced  myself  in  the  shippon,  by 
way  of  a  reprieve,  at  least.  And,  perching  myself 
upon  the  window-ledge  in  the  remotest  corner,  I 
was  knitting  away  slowly,  in  the  dark,  with  a  feel- 
ing of  some  sort  of  companionship  in  my  work  in 
this  lonel)''  place. 

Fo'-  it  was  very  lonely  now,  and  quiet.  Some 
NA\.k J  -go,  if  I  had  crept  here  in  the  \veird,  long 
dusk,  th'j  rocky  floor  and  the  old  rafters  would 
have  given  back  the  patient  tramp  of  auld  Crom- 
bie  and  Snowdrop,  of  Lightfoot  and  the  others, 
that,  since  now  the  summer  days  came  on,  had  all 
been  turned  into  the  meadow-lands  beneath  the 
Hag.  Poor  dumb  beasties !  Many's  the  time, 
since  I  were  a  little  one,  I've  stolen  out  here  in  the 
gloaming,  and  set  the  horn  lantern  down  upon  this 
window-ledge  where  it  made  a  mi^-ty  circle  of  light 
through  the  -o/^ty  atmosphere,  hazy  with  the  warm, 
fragrant  u  \<  "■  u^  the  slow  kine ;  many  a  time 
have  I  crept  t.''  near  to  you,  where  you  stood 
quietly  ruminating,  and  have  laid  a  rough  littlt  head 
on  my  two  hands  upon  your  shaggy  neck,  in  the 
dumb,  half-conscious  reaching  out  after  som.ethuig 
like  affection.  To  this  day  I  can  never  ^-lake  my 
vv'y  in  the  twilight  over  the  strip  of  cobled  pave- 
ment, leauiig  from  the  house-place  and  into  the 

shippon,  v;i  ';  -i  t  Pjcling  again  that  aching  empti- 

4* 


» 


42 


WEARITHORNE. 


\ 


ness  of  the  child-heart  which  had  not  only  no  love 
to  receive,  but  none  to  give. 

But  that  evening  it  was  lonelier  in  there,  and  not 
so  lonely.  Not  a  sound  broke  the  stillness  around 
me,  unless  it  were  the  occasional  flapping  back, 
upon  a  broken  hinge,  of  the  shutter  of  the  unglazed 
window  which  let  in  the  hoarse,  deep  mutter  of  the 
Helbeck  in  the  gorge  beneath  the  Hag.  But  to 
me  there  came  other  soi ;  han  of  that  brawling 
voice  of  the  stream  below,--  ones  that  found  their 
echo  somewhere,  while  I  stopped  to  listen,  my 
bands  falling  idly  with  the  knitting  in  my  lap,  and 
my  cheeks  flaming  with  a  sudden  flush,  as  though 
I  were  not  alone  here  in  the  dusk ;  as  though  some 
one  were  looking  down  :mtil  my  lashes  drooped 
again ;  as  though  some  one  were  speaking, — com- 
mon words  enough,  perhaps. 

Weeks  had  gone  by  since  I  was  last  at  Weari- 
thorne,  the  evening  of  the  Master's  home-coming. 
In  those  weeks,  more  than  once  and  again,  by  beck 
and  syke,  along  the  pasture-lands,  and  in  my  er- 
rands to  the  shop  auld  doited  Bess  made  shift  to 
keep  upon  the  Sedbergh  pike,  had  my  path  been 
crossed,  by  strangely-frequent  chance,  with  the  ram- 
bling path  of  Wearithorne's  master.  Indeed,  only 
last  evening 

"  Nannette,  ye  nowt !  An  ye  be  ben,  an'  dun- 
not  answer  when  I  ca'  t'  ye " 

"  Nay,  nay,  mester,"  I  heard  another  voice  take 
up  the  word,  "  t'  lass  is  no  to  t'  fore.     What  for 


WEARITHORNE. 


43 


d'ye  want  to  shout  so  after  her,  as  it  *ud  bring  her 
up  fro' t'  vera  grave,  an  she  were  biding  quiet  in  it? 
We're  none  wanting  a  rush  o'  a  lass  i'  this  matter 
o'  ours,  I  reckon,"  was  added,  with  a  grim  chuckle, 
which  I  recognized  at  once  as  Adam  o'  Linn  Brig's. 

"  I'm  none  wanting  her,"  Kester  said,  sullenly. 
"  I'm  nobbut  wanting  for  to  win  at  her,  if  so  be 
she's  bound  for  hearkening  an'  spying  hereabout." 

"  Eh,  but  what  ails  ye  at  her,  Kester  ?  T'  las- 
sock's  well  enough ;  it's  very  pretty  behaved  she 
is,  an's  bonnier  than's  good  for  my  Laui^  I'm 
feared,"  he  added,  in  an  undertone.  "  Not  but 
what  I'm  none  so  set  again' t'  marriage,  neighbor," 
quickly,  as  if  in  answer  to  something  in  the  other's 
face:  "  it's  t'  missus.  But  let  a-be,  let  a-be;  if  we's 
win  through  this  job  thegether,  as  is  friendly,  who 
knows  what  we's  do  for  to  be  more  friendly  and 
neighborly  still  ?" 

**  Look  ye  here,  Adam,"  returned  Kester,  bring- 
ing his  stick  with  heavy  emphasis  down  on  the 
stones  (I  had  peered  out  cautiously  from  my  win- 
dow, and  saw  them  just  a  hand's-cast  off,  Adam 
having  swung  himself  on  the  stone  wall  fencing  in 
the  farmyard,  and  Kester  standing  before  him), 
"it'll  be  best  wi'out  melling  wi'  yon  lass.  Not 
but  what  I'd  be  main  glad  to  get  shut  on  her,  and 
'ud  wish  your  Laurie  joy  on  his  bargain, — which 
is,  mayhap,  no  worse  than  another,  for  women's 
kittle  cattle  althegether.  But  a  bargain's  a  bar- 
gain,  and   there   were   no  question   o'  t'    lass  i' 


/■  ' 


44 


WEARITHORNE. 


\%. 


WA 


li  I 


>    I 


\\:\ 


ours.  I'se  go  w'i*  ye  t'  length  o'  yer  own  foot  i* 
this  mill-business,  by  reason  that  I  hate  yon  Leth- 
waite.  You  and  t'  other  chaps  get  shut  o*  t'  mill 
as  'ud  steal  t'  common  away  fro'  ye, — that's  yer 
side  o'  t'  bargain.  And  I  get  my  grudge  on  yon 
Lethwaite, — that's  my  side.  And  so  we's  leave  t' 
lass,  as  has  naught  to  do  wi'  it." 

I  pressed  back  closer  into  the  shadow,  for  I 
could  hear  how  Adam  swung  himself  heavily  to 
the  ground.  He  might  pass  this  window,  going 
homeward  down  the  slope  behind  the  Hag. 

"  Ye's  come  down  now,  then,  Kester,  and  see  t* 
other  fellow^,  an'  tell  un  yersen  as  how  it's  a'  done, 
— leastways,  ready  for  making  an  end  on't  itsen  ?" 
Then,  with  a  hard  laugh, — 

"  I'se  warrant  yon  chap  at  Wearithorne  ill  dreams 
the  night,  for  all  he  thinks  to  come  blithering  an' 
bothering  about  i*  t'  dale,  ..n'  to  ruin  us  a'  wi'out 
any  trouble  to  himsen.  We's  gie  him  his  pains 
for^his  payment,  an'  quarry  his  building-stone  for 
him  to  boot.  He'll  happen  wake  to  think  as  t* 
crack  o'  doom's  come  for  sure,  an' t'  devil's  grup- 
pit  him  afore  his  time." 

Kester's  laugh  was  always  a  sneer. 

"Ay,  ay.  Folk  say  as  it's  a  sly  mouse  sleeps  i' 
t'  cat's  ear,  but  I  am  thinking  it's  a  daft  one." 

Then  the  slow  and  tramping  tread,  which  had 
learned  its  slowness  and  its  weight  on  plowed 
fields  and  rough  moorland  pastures;  and  then 
silence  and  solitude. 


HI!!- 


MM 


WEARITHORNE. 


45 


They  were  both  gone  down, — not  a  soul  up  here 
on  the  Hag  but  only  me. 

I  listened  for  a  long,  long  pause ;  and  then  I 
lifted  myself  from  my  crouching  posture  in  the 
shadow,  and  pushed  my  hair  back  from  my  tem- 
ples with  my  two  hands.  There  was  such  a  pressure 
there, — such  a  weight  of  dulness.  And  I  must 
rouse  myself  to  instant  thought.  There  was  no 
time  to  be  lost. 

"  I'se  warrant  yon  chap  at  Wearithorne  ill  dreams 
the  night,"  had  said  Adam  o'  Linn  Brig ;  and  "  I'se 
go  wi'  ye  t'  length  o'  yer  own  foot  i'  this  mill-busi- 
ness, by  reason  that  I  hate  yon  Lethwaite,"  had 
been  Kester's  words.  What  could  they  mean? 
Some  great  injury  to  the  Master  of  Wearithorne. 
But  at  Wearithorne  ?  or  at  the  mill  ? 

As  this  last  queiy  put  itself  to  me,  I  sank  down 
in  a  helpless,  trembling  terror  on  my  old  seat  in 
the  window.  At  the  mill  ?  And  Miles  Lethwaite 
told  me,  only  last  evening,  that  for  the  past  three 
nights  he  had  been  going,  secretly,  not  to  alarm 
his  mother,  to  spend  them  at  the  mill;  for  now 
that  the  building  was  fairly  under  way,  he  thought 
best  to  keep  some  watch  upon  it,  as  the  whole 
project  seemed  rather  in  disfavor  in  the  neighbor- 
hood. I  had  turned  away  somewhat  abruptly  from 
the  subject  then ;  for  with  no  one  was  it  in  more 
utter  disfavor  than  with  me.  But  if  I  had  only 
questioned  him, — if  I  could  only  know 

I  started  to  my  feet.     If  I  could  only  know ! 


/■■• 


1:  ^;ii 


46 


WEARITHORNE. 


And  was  I  to  sit  trembling  there,  and  Miles  Leth- 
waite  unwarned  ?  Was  I  to  tarry,  shivering  over 
my  own  fears,  when  this  very  moment  it  might 
be 

The  thought  had  not  had  time  to  complete  itself 
before  I  had  flung  wide  the  shippon-door,  had 
crossed  the  broad  rock-level  which  spread  like  a 
courtyard  before  the  house,  and  was  making  my 
way  down  from  the  cliff. 

It  might  be  called  rather  a  ladder  than  a  path 
which  clambers  down  the  face  of  the  scar,  or  hag. 
For  the  space  of  a  few  yards  from  the  summit  it  is 
smooth  enough, — too  smooth,  did  not  matted  ling- 
and  whin -bushes  offer  some  stay.  But  then  it 
stoops  beneath  the  brow,  and  only  jutting  ledges 
form  a  broken  sort  of  stair  down  to  the  cleugh  of 
Helbeck  Lund.  The  place  is  weird  and  fearful  as 
its  name, — shut  in  by  gaunt  walls  that  here  are 
rent  in  a  chasm,  there  stoop  away  into  a  dim, 
cavelike  cleft, — never  open  out  to  yield  more  than 
a  wishful  glimpse  of  the  wold  beyond.  Into  the 
very  heart  of  this  fastness  has  stormed  the  torrent, 
only  to  fall,  broken,  groaning,  struggling,  on  the 
cruel  crags  below.  The  lingering  light  creeps  with 
a  lurid  glint  from  gash  to  gash,  leaving  the  un- 
touched glo  m  the  deeper  from  the  contrast.  The 
few  long  larches  in  the  rocks  mingle  their  wailing 
sough  with  the  frequent  becks,  flinging  themselves 
in  a  wrath-white  mist  down  the  cliffs  and  into  the 
torrent  hurrying  to  escape  through  the  defile  to 


WEARITHORNE. 


47 


the  head-waters  of  the  Yore, — flinging  themselves 
down  where  the  vines  toss  their  long  arms  after, 
and  the  red  wild  currant-bushes  and  the  yellow 
star  of  Bethlehem  draw  back  from  the  wind  upon 
some  turfy  corner  of  a  leaning  crag.  And  past 
them,  down  through  this  dismal  place,  and  over 
the  slippery  stepping-stones,  I  make  my  way,  and 
now,  at  last,  am  on  the  open  moor. 

Dreary  and  desolate  enough,  that  opening  of 
Swaledale  toward  the  western  boundary  of  Hol- 
low Mill  Cross.  So  bleak  and  bare,  where  the  high 
moors  stretch  away  on  either  hand,  that  cheerful 
thorpes  and  villages  stop  short  upon  its  edge,  and 
leave  it  to  the  few  and  straggling  peat-diggers  to 
rear  their  huts,  so  many  dingy  tufts,  upon  the  heath. 
Hardly  anything  moves  across,  unless  it  be  the 
darker  shadow  of  a  cloud ;  and  it  might  seem  they 
all  forgather  here,  driven  by  both  east  and  west 
winds,  and  in  keeping  with  the  mists  that  brood 
above,  upon  the  mountains  round.  The  winds 
have  but  a  barren  tract  to  wail  over ;  but  bent  and 
reeds  to  whistle  through,  that  here  and  there  con- 
ceal some  pitfall  of  an  inky  pool.  In  this  desolate 
expanse,  the  home-grounds  of  Wearithorne  show 
like  a  wooded  island  in  a  waste  of  storm-dark  sea. 

But  Wearithorne,  with  its  gay  lights  flashing, 
starlike,  out  through  the  cloudy  lime-avenue,  is 
left  far  enough  to  the  eastward,  and  I  keep  on  my 
way,  fronting  the  wind,  which  has  veered  round  to 
the  west,  and  is  beginning  to  blow  a  drizzle  in  my 


i«-" 


I 


u>  I 


r  • 


48 


WEARITHORNE. 


face.  That  is  only  since  I  began  to  cross  the 
moor,  and  I  came  down  unprotected  against  such 
a  change.  But  I  never  heeded  that ;  only  it  is  such 
a  weary,  weary  way ;  and  how  can  I  tell  but  that 
even  now  my  warning  may  be  late  ? 

I  dare  not  suffer  my  thoughts  to  dwell  for  a  mo- 
ment on  that  fragment  of  a  conversation  overheard. 
Faint  heart  must  not  flag  until  the  errand  is  dis- 
charged. And  so  I  hurry  on, — stumbling,  some- 
times, in  the  tangled  ling,  dragging  my  steps 
sometimes  on  a  boggy  verge, — frightened  and 
shivering  and  drenched,  in  the  mirkness  of  the 
fast-fallen  niight. 

It  is  almost  an  instinct  leads  me  on  now,  so  that 
I  hardly  deviate  from  the  right  path.  Once  or 
twice  I  lose  it,  but  fall  into  it  again,  by  the  blind 
leading  of  memory,  perhaps.   And  now  at  last 

There  is  no  moon  up  yonder,  to  show  me  where 
I  am.  The  clouds  have  buried  her  too  deep  for 
that.  Yet — as  when  some  sweet  soul  is  hidden 
away  from  us  on  earth — the  darkness  is  less  dark 
for  her  shining  even  somewhere  beyond  sight. 
And  the  moon  the  rain-clouds  had  hapt  away,  still 
lit  the  dusk  enough  to  show  me  where  I  was. 

An  outcropping  of  granite  rock  upon  the  moor- 
land edge,  part  of  it  rent  away  in  a  small  quarrj'-, 
and  the  stone  therefrom  raised  to  some  little  height 
in  the  walls  of  a  not  yet  half-finished  building. 

I  knew  the  spot  so  well,  from  many  a  long  ram- 
ble over  the  moor,  that  I  was  at  no  loss  now  among 


WEARITHORNE.  49 

the  ruins  which  strewed  all  the  ground.  There  was 
a  fringe  of  low,  wind-stunted  trees,  off  on  the  quarry 
side,  and  from  these  the  outer  wall  of  the  old  castle 
swept  in  a  broken  circle,  broken  yet  more  by  the 
fallen,  scattered  stones  having  been  used  in  great 
part  for  the  mill  in  course  of  erection.  In  the 
midst  of  that  circle,  and  adjoining  the  mill,  rose  the 
old  castle  keep,  in  a  square  buttressed  mass,  which 
had  boldly  stood  against  the  shock  of  time ;  and 
although  the  upper  story  was  half  crumbled  in,  yet 
the  two  lower  ones  still  held  their  own,  upon  their 
solid  sloping  base  of  some  dozen  feet  or  more. 
The  topmost  wall  thrust  up  against  the  shifting 
clouds  a  splintered  pinnacle,  which  seemed  to  catch 
and  hold  one  passing  glint  of  moonlight  while  I 
watched.  And  here  before  me,  when  I  had  gone 
round  to  the  farther  tree-girt  side,  a  steep  stone 
stair,  of  a  score  of  steps,  which  I  had  counted  over 
wellnigh  a  score  of  times  in  my  rambles,  led  up 
to  the  first  story. 

I  had  paused  at  the  bottom  of  the  flight.  And 
how  one  loses  courage  in  a  pause !  As  I  set  my 
foot  on  the  first  step,  such  a  rush  of  cowardly 
second-thoughts  crowded  upon  me  that  I  drew  it 
back  again,  and  lingered,  leaning  on  the  wooden 
hand-rail  which  led  up  on  either  side  of  the  flight. 
Such  a  rush  of  false  shame,  of  poor,  paltry  woman's 
pride !  as  if  it  could  ever  shame  a  woman  to  be 
leal  and  brave,  and  to  forget  herself,  if  so  she  might 
bring  aid  to  any  one. 


.iV 


50 


WEARITHORNE. 


But  the  voices  in  the  twilight  up  at  the  Hag  were 
dying  away  from  me ;  and  in  their  stead  came  a 
taunting  whisper  of  what  Miles  Lethwaite  would 
say, — how  look  at  me,  coming  hither  all  this  way 
by  night,  on  a  fool's  errand ;  for  it  did  seem  worse 
than  folly  now,  as  I  looked  back.  Could  1  have 
taken  up  mere  vague  threats  ?  What  was  it  Kester 
had  said  ? 

I  could  not  remember.  For  my  life,  at  that  one 
instant,  I  could  not  have  recalled  one  word,  al- 
though they  came  back  to  me  clearly  enough  after- 
ward. But  as  I  stood  there  trembling,  all  my  cour- 
age gone,  tryihg  to  collect  my  thoughts as  I 

stood  there,  suddenly  it  was  as  though  that  sneer- 
ing laugh  of  Kester's  rang  out  beside  me,  and  then 
followed  a  hoarse  chuckle,  which  I  knew  for  Adam 
o*  Linn  Brig's.  For  one  instant  I  shrank  back,  be- 
lieving that  I  heard  them  for  the  second  time,  and 
here.  But  the  next  moment  I  knew  they  were  a 
vivid  memory,  speaking  as  plainly  as  words  might, 
of  the  hurt  it  was  in  the  minds  of  these  two  men 
to  work  on  Miles  Lethwaite. 

At  that,  with  firm,  quick  step,  I  straight  ran  up 
the  stairs,  then  groped  on  through  the  open  door- 
way, which  had  lost  its  door  long  years  ago ;  and  so 
round  the  square  hall,  which  filled  the  whole  of  the 
lower  story ;  until  I  found  the  stair. 

I  knew  how  it  mounted  up,  round  the  wall,  in  a 
long,  steep,  winding  way.  I  had  been  there  once 
when  Nance  of  Swaledale  and  her  band  had  pitched 


WEARITHORNE. 


51 


their  gypsy  tent  among  the  ruins  below,  and  I 
had  forgotten  neither  the  ascent  nor  the  great 
iron-studded  door  at  the  top.  And  now  that  I  had 
won  up  there  again,  I  tapped  at  it  with  resolute 
hand. 

There  was  no  answer.  I  began  to  wonder  whether 
I  could  have  come  all  this  long  way  for  naught. 
I  had  seen  no  light  from  the  outside 

Yet,  as  I  stooped  down  nearer  to  the  door,  there 
was  a  narrow  streak  of  light  across  the  threshold, 
and  I  had  hardly  lifted  myself  erect  again  before 
the  heavy  door  was  unbarred,  and  Miles  Lethwaite 
an  '  I  stood  face  to  face. 

t  lantern  he  was  holding  upraised  hardly  suf- 
hced,  in  the  great  square  room,  to  light  up  the 
glooni  of  gray  stone  walls  and  floor.  But  one 
glance,  and  that  of  the  briefest,  took  in  the  barren- 
ness, where  was  no  furniture,  ei  cept  a  large  arm- 
chair, and  a  table,  with  a  book  flu::g  down  upon  it, 
in  the  farthest  window.  In  that  window  and  the 
other  two,  deep  loopholes  all,  were  improvised 
plank  shutters,  where  it  was  clear  that,  before  they 
were  placed  there,  wind  and  weather  had  had  free 
access.  For  dim  though  the  light,  it  was  enough 
to  show  the  moss  and  weather-stains  and  lichens 
on  the  walls,  and  on  the  floor  leaves  whirled  about, 
or  rended  branches  tossed  in  by  the  wind.  Over 
yonder,  cobweb  tapestries  swayed  down  black  and 
heavy,  with  here  a  faded  leaf,  and  there  a  twig,  or 
skeleton  of  unwary  insect.     I  felt  myself  not  alto- 


.i|i!    \ 


:■  & 


'111  % 

.A    \ 


52 


WEARITHORNE. 


gether  unlike  the  silly  fly  that  buzzed  into  the 
spider's  parlor,  as  Miles  Letbwaite  paused,  look- 
ing down  into  my  face  with  a  long,  incredulous 
stare then  drew  me  in  and  shut  to  the  door. 

"Nannette,  what  is  it?  What  has  Iiappened? 
What  can  have  brought  you  here  ?" 

'*  Nothing  has  happened,  but " 

I  was  shivering  like  a  very  leaf  in  the  blast,  and 
I  could  not  command  my  voice  to  answer  him. 

He  wheeled  forward  his  chair,  and  made  me  sit 
down,  and  I  drooped  my  forehead  against  the  arm 
of  the  chair.  I  was  struggling  in  that  pause  to  be 
calm,  to  be  clear  in  what  I  had  to  say.  And  yet, 
for  all  my  struggling,  the  fear  of  him,  as  he  stood 
beside  me,  overpov/ered  every  other  thought.  The 
fear  lest,  looking  up,  I  should  see  a  lurking  doubt 
that — yes,  that  I  had  come  hither  out  of  the  mere 
charity  one  would  show  to  a  stranger.  For  he  did 
not  know,  I  was  saying  to  myself,  choosing  to  forget 
how  full  of  terrors  the  way  had  been  to  me, — he  did 
not  know  the  lasses  of  our  dales,  nor  how  fine-lady 
fears  were  set  at  naught  by  them.  And  he  might 
think 

And  he,  standing  beside  me  still,  touched  my 
bent  hoad,  with  a  light,  passing  touch. 

"  Poor  child !  you  are  wet  through.  And  I  have 
no  fire,  not  even  a  glass  of  wine  to  drive  away  the 
shivering  cold." 

I  lifted  my  head,  wringing  out  the  dripping 
masses  of  hair,  loosened  by  wind  and  wet,  and 


WEARITHORNE. 


53 


'il 


twisting  them  together  as  I  fronted  him,  rising  to 
my  feet, —  ^ 

"  It's  been  but  dree  work,  Mr.  Lethwaite,  win- 
ning here  through  night  and  rain,  and  it's  but 
woman-like,  they  say,  to  shake  at  fears  past.  I'd 
none  have  been  for  coming  out,  you'll  know,  but 
there  was  cause ;  it's  not  for  Mallerstang  to  be  un- 
friends with  the  House, — ae  neighbor  must  needs 
serve  another, — and " 

"  I  understand,"  he  put  in,  in  my  pause  of  hot, 
blus!?ing  confusion.  "  You  would  come  to  me  as 
a  neighbor,  and  none  the  more  readily  than  to  any 
other  neighbor  in  the  dale.  Is  that  it,  Nannette  ?" 
he  asked,  with  a  proud,  vexed  ring  in  his  voice. 
"  And  now,  how  can  I  serve  you,  since  you  have 
come  to  me  instead  of  to  Adam  o'  Linn  Brig, 
or " 

"  I'd  none  have  come  to  you  instead  of  to  Adam 
o'  Linn  Brig,"  I  interrupted  him,  stung  into  sud- 
den anger  by  the  tone  of  his  last  words, — **  never, 
if  it  wer  to  ask  you  to  serve  me.  And  you  can 
lightlie  ine,  to  think  me  the  lass  to  be  wandering 
over  the  moor  this  gate " 

"  How  can  you  so  wilfully  misunderstand  me  ?" 
he  said,  coldly,  in  the  first  breathing-space  of  my 
burst  of  indignation,  "  By  what  do  you  judge  me 
the  coward  to  insult  any  woman  who  has  come  to 
me  for  protection  ?     For  I  suppose  Kester " 

Kester?  Did  Miles  know?  did  he  suspect?  I 
asked  him,  hurriedly, — 


54 


WEARITHORNE. 


"Whatof  Kester?" 

"  Only,"  with  a  thrill  of  pity  in  his  voice,  "  that 
the  whole  country-side  rings  of  his  harshness  to  his 
?ittle  niece.  It  is  said  she  has  been  even  turned 
out  of  doors  at  night  in  his  mad  rages." 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders. 

"  Turning  out  of  doors  makes  no  bruises.  But 
he  has  not  turned  me  out  to-night.  It  is  no  an 
errand  of  my  own,  but  yours,  I  am  come  upon." 

And,  clearly  as  I  have  written  it  down  here,  I 
told  him  all  I  had  overheard,  but  suddenly  be- 
thought myself  in  time  to  keep  back  names  and 
place;  ^d  Mil^s  Lethwaite,  looking  in  my  face, 
forbore  to  question  me. 

I  had  a  sharp  struggle  with  myself  in  that  brief 
pause  I  made  in  the  midst  of  my  story.  A  hard, 
hard  struggle.  For  it  was  not  until  I  myself  had 
wronged — cruelly  wronged — another,  not  until  I 
yearned  in  vain  for  forgiveness,  that  I  learned  to 
forgive.  But  in  those  innocent  days  of  mine  I 
was  very  hard,  very  bitter  and  unsparing.  Did 
Kester  merit  at  my  hands  that  I  should  cloak  his 
guilt  ? 

In  the  midst  of  the  question  came  words  of  Kes- 
ter's  to-night.  Scarcely  words  of  kindness,  for  he 
had  said  he  would  be  main  glad  to  be  rid  of  the  lass; 
but  something  like  forbearance  he  had  shown  in 
his  bargain  with  Adam  o'  Linn  Brig.  And  Adam, 
— had  he  not  defended  me,  after  a  fashion  ?  I  was 
little  used  to  any  form  of  kindness,  and  this  touched 


■fa. 


WEARITHORNE. 


55 


me  strangely.  And  so  I  told  my  tale,  without  a 
name. 

Until  I  had  nearly  ended  my  story,  we  stood  look- 
ing calmly  in  each  other's  eyes.  But  when  I  came 
to  those  words  of  Adam  o'  Linn  Brig's, — "and 
quarry  his  building-stone  for  him," — Miles  started, 
and  averted  his  gaze  from  me  upon  the  floor.  I 
saw  the  grave  frown  deepen,  and  the  brows  knit 
themselves  in  thought.    Presently  he  said  to  me, — 

"  I  can't  quite  make  it  out.  I  have  had  a  watch 
kept,  and  the  workmen  here  all  day,  and  no  one 
has  been  seen  about.  Now,  if  these  men,  or  one 
of  them,  could  have  gained  access  to  the  sort  of 
cellar  under  the  stair, — but  that  is  impossible.  I 
have  had  it  strongly  secured,  and  the  key  has 
never  left  my  own  keeping." 

But  I  was  puzzling  over  some  indistinct  remem- 
brance ;  and  at  last  it  shaped  itself : 

"  It  seems  to  me,  when  Nance  of  Swaledale  was 
gypsying  about  here  with  her  band,  I  heard — I 
heard  it  said,  that  when  he  was  a  lad — that  is — I 
mean  there  had  been  years  ago  a  secret  approach, 
entering  underground  into  this  keep ;  and  if  any 
one  who  knew  of  it " 

Miles  Lethwaite's  face  had  gone  quite  gray  and 
stern  ;  and  he  cut  me  short  by  grasping  my  hand 
hardly  gently. 

"  Come  with  me,"  he  said,  in  a  quick,  harsh 
tone, — so  harsh  that  I  looked  up  at  him  wonder- 
ingly,  thinking  I  must  have  angered  him. 


"•"TT""""'" 


'/•' 


56 


WEARITHORNE. 


But  he  did  not  answer  my  look ;  he  did  not  so 
much  as  glance  my  way.  He  had  drawn  me  to 
the  door,  with  a  determination  that  would  not  be 
gainsaid,  and  now  hurried  me  down  the  stairs  and 
out  of  doors. 

I  asked  him  breathlessly  what  it  all  meant,  when 
we  had  reached  the  foot  of  the  outer  flight.  But 
he  gave  me  no  reply  just  then,  drawing  me  on 
still  farther,  until  we  gained  the  shelter  of  the 
fringe  of  trees. 

"  I  cannot  tell  what  it  all  means.  I  must  go  back, 
Nannette.  Give  me  your  word  to  remain  here  in 
this  spot  until  I  return." 

"  I'll  none  stay !"  I  cried  out.  "  Why  should  I 
have  come  here  to-night,  if,  after  all,  you  are  going 
back  ? — into  some  danger,  I  know.  You  are  throw- 
ing your  life  away,  — yes,  your  life — your  life !  for 
you  do  not  know  how  we  dales-people  can  hate, — 
you  do  not  know " 

"  I  know  how  true  you  dales-people  can  be," 
he  said,  with  a  lightness  which  it  did  not  strike 
me  at  the  moment  was  forced.  "And  so  I  shall 
trust  you,  if  you  give  me  your  word  to  wait 
here." 

I  looked  up  at  him  wistfully.  If  the  moon  would 
only  peer  out  now,  and  let  me  see  if  he  were  really 
as  careless  as  he  appeared,  standing  there  before 
me.  But  the  moon  would  not  give  me  any  an- 
swer ;  and  Miles  Lethwaite  was  waiting  for  mine. 

"  Very  well,"  I  said,  with  some  impatience.  "  But 


WEARITHORNE. 


57 


only  for  a  moment.  I'll  none  wait  longer.  I  must 
be  up  at  the  llag." 

"  Only  for  a  moment."  He  did  not  wait  for  my 
last  words,  but  was  gone  from  me  before. 

I  had  sunk  down  on  the  trunk  of  a  fallen  tree, 
upon  the  sodden  ground.  It  was  still  raining 
slightly,  but  I  was  past  caring  3r  a  sprinkle  more 
or  less.  Yet  I  waited  there  in  a  very  dissatisfied 
mood.  Dissatisfied  with  myself  Why  had  I 
promised  to  loiter  even  for  an  instant,  now  that  my 
errand  was  fulfilled,  my  warning  delivered  ?  Dis- 
satisfied with  Miles  Lethwaite;  for,  although  I  had 
been  in  haste  to  give  the  warning,  I  was  just  a  little 
disappointed  by  its  being  so  promptly  heeded. 
My  hero  was  always  a  sort  of  Jack  -  the  -  Giant- 
killer,  who  would  have  been  well  pleased  to  beard 
Kester  and  Adam  and  half  a  dozen  others  of  our 
dale  giants  together  in  their  den ;  and  would  never 
have  thought  of  yielding  up  his  own  castle  before 
the  phantom  of  a  voice.  And  Miles  Lethwaite, — 
I  would  have  thought 

What,  I  did  not  finish  to  myself;  for  a  new  idea 
flashed  across  the  other,  and  with  such  vividness 
that  it  startled  me  from  my  seat. 

Miles  was  no  coward ;  he  had  gone  back.  Had 
he  seen  anything,  heard  anything,  that  he  had 
brought  me  away,  and  then  returned  to  brave  the 
danger  there  ? 

Probabilities  and  improbabilities  were  forgotten 
with  my  promise ;  and  I  found  myself  presently 


58 


WEARJTHORNE. 


half-way  up  the  outer  stair  of  the  tower.  I  went 
more  cautiously  then, — hiore  timidly.  All  was  so 
quiet, — so  ominously  still. 

So  still.  But  just  as  I  set  foot  upon  the  upper 
step,  there  was  a  sudden  violent  crash,  as  of  some 
hurried  fall.  And  when  I  stopped  on  the  threshold, 
aware  of  a  heaviness  like  smoke  in  the  air  within, 
I  saw,  out  of  the  haze,  Miles  coming  quickly  to- 
ward me,  with  the  lantern  he  had  first  brought 
down  from  the  upper  room. 

He  extinguished  it  as  he  came  near,  and  set  it 
down.  Therefore  he  was  close  upon  me  before 
he  observed  md     Then, — 

"  Nannette,"  was  all  he  said. 

I  have  heard  words  from  Miles  Lethwaite's  lips 
since  then,  which  even  now,  in  the  mere  memory, 
have  power  to  stir  my  very  soul.  But  never  a 
word  which,  in  the  utterance,  shook  me  like  that 
"  Nannette." 

Before  I  knew  what  he  would  do,  he  had  his  arm 
about  me,  and  had  lifted  me,  easily  as  if  I  were  no 
burden,  to  the  foot  of  the  entrance-stair,  and  to 
some  little  distance  beyond  the  circle  of  ruins. 
And  then  he  released  me  only  to  draw  my  arm  in 
his,  and  to  lead  me  rapidly  away  across  the  moor. 

Frightened,  I  knew  not  why, — submissive  and 
subdued, — I  yielded  myself  to  his  guidance.  I 
did  not  question  him ;  and  it  was  not  until  after 
some  moments  that  he  stopped  and  looked  down 
into  my  face  in  the  gray  dimness. 


WEARITirORNE. 


59 


"  How  could  you  frighten  me  so  horribly,  Nan- 
nette  ?" 

I  drew  my  hand  from  his  arm  in  the  pause.  I 
had  a  sense  of  the  unbecoming  in  being  on  such 
terms  as  this  with  the  Master  of  Wearithorne.  To 
forgather  with  its  housekeeper  had  been  honor 
enough  for  me. 

"  I  don't  understand "  I  began. 

"  Listen,"  said  he,  interrupting  me. 

He  had  caught  my  two  hands  in  the  strong  grasp 
of  his  right,  as  he  stood  fronting  the  tower. 

Nothing  to  be  seen  but  the  gray  moor,  the  gray 
sky,  and  a  great  blot  of  darker  gray  on  moor  and 
sky,  more  distant  for  the  darkness  of  the  night. 
Nothing  to  be  seen,  nothing  heard,  for  a  long  space 
of  waiting,  so  it  seemed. 

A  long  space, — two  or  three  moments, — as  long 
as  life,  it  seemed  to  me.  For  although  Miles  Leth- 
waite  said  no  more  than  that  one  word,  "  Listen !" 
yet  there  was  a  heavy  foreboding,  a  sense  of  dread 
and  fear  and  of  fast-coming  evil.  The  very  air  had  a 
weight  in  it;  the  bleak  waste  of  moor  and  sky  was 
gloom-enshrouded.  Fast  though  Miles  Lethwaite 
kept  my  two  hands,  they  trembled  in  his  hold. 
Till,  all  at  once 

A  heavy  crash, — a  long,  deep,  heavy,  awful  roll, 
that  boomed  back  from  the  far-off  mountain-sides 
like  thunder ;  and  a  flash  of  flame,  more  lurid  than 
lightning,  gashing  the  gray  gloom  across  the 
moor, — as  transitory  as  the  lightning,  leaping  up 


I)!  I 


60 


WEARITHORNE. 


one  moment  with  a  wide,  fierce  blaze,  then  sinking 
down  again. 

And  then, — where  was  the  tower,  which  had 
darkened  against  moor  and  sky  ? 

Presently  it  was  Miles  Lethwaite  who  broke  the 
dreadful  hush  that  followed : 

"There  was  nothing  to  burn;  no  fuel  for  the 
flame,"  he  said,  in  a  strange,  suppressed  voice. 
"  But  see,  Nannette,  they  have  quarried  my  stone 
finely  for  me." 

"  They !" 

"  I  had  powder  stowed  away  in  the  cell  there, 
for  the  blasting  of  the  granite.  I  raised  the  trap- 
door just  now,  to  find  a  brushwood  fire  bursting 
into  full  flame  as  the  air  rushed  down.  Some 
one  had  kindled  it,  with  some  arrangement  like 
a  slow-match,  perhaps,  through  the  underground 
entrance.  I  knew  it  could  take  but  a  moment 
to  reach  the  inner  door,  where  the  powder 
was  stowed  away.  And  so  they  have  blown 
up  the  whole  concern,  my  project,  mill,  tower, 
and  all." 

"  They !" 

I  understood  all  now.  I  wrenched  my  hands 
out  of  Miles  Lethwaite's  hold.  Kester !  it  was  my 
own  blood — my  very  own — had  done  this  thing. 
Shamed  and  humbled,  I  shrank  back  from  the 
wronged  man.  It  might  have  been  even  murder, 
— and  it  was  Kester's  work ! 

Miles  did  not  heed  that  sudden  gesture  of  mine. 


|i^:! 


WEARITHORNE, 


6l 


He  had  gone  on,  still  in  the  same  tone  of  sup- 
pressed passion : 

"You  must  give  me  up  the  names  of  these 
scoundrels,  Nannette." 

"  Nay,  I'll  none  do  that,"  I  broke  in,  sullenly, 
turning  from  him,  and  beginning  my  homeward 
walk.  "  It's  for  you  to  find  out,  if  you  will, — I'll 
none  bear  you  witness.  What  did  you  look  for, 
Mr.  Lethwaite, — coming  here  and  putting  about 
all  the  prejudices  of  the  country-side?"  I  went  on, 
indignantly,  as  he  fell  into  the  path  beside  me. 
"  You  might  have  been  ware  of  the  consequences. 
We  dales-folk  are  none  for  mills,  at  the  best ;  and 
to  set  one  down  just  here,  with  one  foot  on  the 
common  and  the  other  on  the  old  castle  ruins 
we're  proud  of,  in  our  way " 

"  But,  my  little,  daleswoman,"  he  answered,  as 
if  something  in  my  speech  amused  him,  in  spite 
of  his  wrath  before,  "  is  it  not  better  to  make  the 
old  Lethwaite  stronghold  a  refuge  in  time  of 
trouble  for  the  estate,  than  to  let  the  whole  pass 
into  the  hands  of  strangers  ?  It  may  lower  a  Leth- 
waite, as  you  once  told  me,"  he  added,  with  a  proud 
lifting  of  the  head,  "to  turn  miller;  but  an  empty 
purse  must  needs  be  filled,  you  know.  And  you 
know,  too,  I  trust,  that  I  would  not  raise  one  stone 
upon  another  on  a  foot  of  ground  not  mine." 

"  An  empty  purse !"  I  had  echoed,  involuntarily. 

"  An  empty  purse.  You  have  heard,  perhaps, 
that  it  was  once  well  filled.    But  I  have  had  losses 

6 


WEARITHORNE. 


since ;  and  other  losses  still  are  imminent,  I  fear. 
This  spot  was  the  most  available  for  building,  and 
the  tower,  and  those  stones  of  the  old  wall  which 
were  altogether  broken  down  and  scattered,  made 
the  cost  much  less.  And  now,  Nannette,  do  you 
expect  me  to  sit  down  quietly  under  such  a  wrong 
as  this  to-night?  This,  which  may  mean  ruin? 
Or  will  you,  in  simple  justice,  give  me  these  men's 
names  ?" 

There  was  a  long  silence  before  I  replied, — a 
silence  during  which  we  were  still  walking  on 
rapidly  across  the  moor,  toward  Mallerstang  Hag. 

At  last  I  spoke ;  very  humbly,  very  low : 

"  It  is  simple  justice,  this  you  require  of  me.  But 
how  is  it  possible  for  me  to  obey  you  ?" 

I  broke  off  there.  I  hated  Kester ;  but  such  re- 
venge as  this  ? 

"  If  I  have  risked  anything  to  save  you  to- 
night  "  I  cried  out,  passionately. 

He  stopped  me.  I  have  no  doubt  that  in  that 
wild  outburst  of  mine,  that  quivering,  desperate 
voice,  he  heard  and  understood  the  truth.  The 
whole  dark,  shameful  truth. 

"  I  owe  you  my  very  life,  Nannette.  I  cannot 
thank  you  for  such  a  risk  as  yours ;  but  I  can  be 
silent  from  all  questioning." 

The  words  were  few,  and  quietly  enough  spoken. 
But  they  were  very  full  to  me, — so  full,  that  any 
words  after  them  must  have  seemed  empty  and 
vain.    And  so  we  went  on  in  almost  utter  silence. 


WEARITHORNE. 


63 


the  whole  way,  round  to  the  slopes  behind  the 
Hag.  For  it  was  too  dark  now  for  my  path  through 
Helbeck  Lund.  We  turned  into  the  longer  path 
about;  and  then  I  would  suffer  him  to  go  with 
me  no  farther. 

"  We  must  part  here,"  I  said.  "  And,  Mr.  Leth- 
waite,  you  will  promise  me  that  no  one  shall  know 
of  all  this;  no  one  shall  know  how  you  were 
warned  away  froni  the  tower  ?" 

"  Only  my  mother,  Nannette.  My  life  is  worth 
much,  very  much,  to  her;  and  she  must  know 
what  you  have  done." 

I  shook  my  head  in  silence.  But  he  would  not 
take  my  refusal  so. 

"  For  a  mere  whim,  Nannette,  to  be  so  unkind  to 
me,  so  cold!  For  a  mere  whim,  to  deprive  my 
mother  of  knowing " 

I  interrupted  him.  The  cold,  proud  smile  of 
Mrs.  Lethwaite,  as  I  had  been  used  to  seeing  it  in 
her  picture,  came  between  me  and  his  words,  and 
gave  me  courage  to  keep  to  my  point, — for  my 
own  sake,  I  said;  and  so  I  wrested  his  consent 
from  him.  And  then  I  added  good-night.  I 
would  steal  up  to  the  Hag  alone ;  no  fear  that  I 
had  been  missed  all  this  while.  And  Mrs.  Leth- 
waite must  have  heard  the  explosion, — all  the 
country-side  would  be  agate, — and  she  would 
be  sadly  alarmed  and  anxious  until  he  came  to 
Wearithorne. 

Still,  he  had  not  moved,  for  all  my  urging. 


I  ; 


:| 


64 


WEARITHORNE. 


"  One  moment,  Nannette." 

But  I  had  sprung  to  a  grassy  crag  beyond  reach 
'of  his  outstretched  hand,  and  I  did  not  stay  or 
loiter  at  his  bidding. 

I  hurried  on,  without  a  pause,  until  I  had  nearly 
gained  the  ascent,  and  the  dull  range  of  the  un- 
lighted  homestead  rose  above  me  on  the  edge. 
Looking  back  then,  where  lifting  shadows  let  the 
moon  go  free  for  a  brief  space,  I  saw  him  still 
standing  below  and  gazing  after  me. 


■■w^ 


IV. 


Beneath  the  rose,  beneath  the  rose, 

The  sloping  shadowy  banks  between, 
The  laughter-trilling  brooklet  flows 
She  wandered  in  the  noon  repose  ' 

From  yon  green  bowers  where  maidens  glean, 
And  village-lads,  the  vintage-rows. 

Dark  eyes  that  shy  through  fringes  gleam 
Their  answer  to  the  young  knight's  vows, 
Nor  heed  the  shadow  on  the  boughs. 

Nor  hollow  murmur  of  the  stream- 
Si  luli  fingers  fast  which  his  inclose 
Be:,  ath  the  rose,  beneath  the  rose. 

VINTAGE-ROWS  and  purple  harvests !— there 
is  a  glow  in  the  mere  words,  of  which  our 
north-country  dales  know  nothing.  Yet  these,  too, 
are  gay  enough  sometimes  in  their  own  way, — even 
our  Mallerstang  itself,  one  morning  some  two  sun- 
shiny months  after  that  night  of  the  finding  of  my 
mother's  letters. 

I  remember  that  morning  so  well.  Nay,  as  I 
look  up  from  my  seat  in  this  deep  window,  I  do 
not  remember ;  I  am  living  it  again. 

Sunset  now  is  slanting  up  the  cliff;  but  then  it 
was  the  early  sunlight  fell  across  the  broad  rock- 
level  to  the  rambling  old  farm-house,  buttressed 
with  projecting  stones  at  every  gable,  and  crouched 

6*  i65) 


'^ 


66 


WEARITHORNE. 


low  that  the  winds  may  pass  overhead,  and  not 
wrestle  with  it  as  they  wrestle  with  the  few  bare 
trees,  and  even  the  T/hin-bushes  on  the  clifif 's  steep 
northwestern  side.  Crouched  low,  its  deep-set, 
diamond-paned  windov/s  glittering  irregularly  all 
over  the  irregular  face,  and  glaring  back  at  the 
sunrise,  like  red,  sunken  eyes,  ovt  from  beneath  a 
shag  of  thatch,  which  red  moss  here,  and  green- 
and-golden  vetch  and  lichen  there,  had  patch  by 
patch  undertaken  to  repair.  For  Kest^r  was  a 
having  man,  and  spent  nor  penny  nor  time  but  on 
his  sheep  and  horses  and  horned  cattle  pastured 
on  the  slopes  behind ;  and  on  dairy,  shippon,  and 
barn, — the  only  straight  line  in  the  farm-house 
building, — with  the  farm-yard  about  them,  where, 
until  the  summer  days  come  in,  the  sober  kine  are 
standing  about  in  dull  content.  But  a  discontent 
that  farm-yard  was  to  me  in  those  old  days.  The 
crag  itself  is  so  grand ;  the  house  picturesque  in 
its  quaintncss ;  passing  beautiful  the  moors  away 
beyon  J  the  rugged  cleugh  in  front ;  the  glorious 
gray-and-purple  fells  that  topple  one  above  an- 
o<iii?r  in  the  rear,  behind  our  pasture-slopes.  But 
that  farm-yard  thrust  its  homeliness  in  my  face,  till 
I  would  turn  aside  to  yonder  pile  of  Druid-stones, 
the  circle  of  wh'ch  had  been  long  since  broken  ''nto 
for  the  building  ot  this  house.  Since  first  I  found 
my  way  into  the  library  at  VVearithorne,  and  filled 
my  silly  head  out  of  the  old  romances  there,  yon- 
der gicat  squai'e  mass  has  been  my  donjon-keep; 


WEARITHORNE. 


67 


those  lower  ranges  are  wassail-hall  and  ladye's 
bov/er,  where  ivy  curtains  the  empty  casement- 
space;  and  the  banner  is  that  one  pine, — the 
only  tree  above  here  on  the  cliff,  which  yet  is  not 
all  gray,  thanks  to  the  ivy  knotted  everywhere. 
Those  old,  old  dreams !  The  days  are  weariful  in 
which  one  dreams  no  more. 

Just  behind  Mallerstang  Hag  is  a  declivity,  and 
then  a  rise  to  the  height  of  Moss-Edge,  a  long, 
narrow  summit,  where  we  always  cut  our  peat  for 
firing.  About  its  base,  and  stretching  out  to  east- 
ward, our  pasture -fields  are  of  those  billowy  slow 
swells  and  hollows  which  in  my  fancy  have  always 
been  associated  with  a  heavy  but  not  stormy  sea. 
Th'jre  are  no  abrupt,  breathless  descents  here,  as 
on  the  face  of  Helbeck  Lund.  All  is  gentle,  calm, 
and  peaceful,  although  in  reality  the  declivities 
sink  to  low  valleys,  and  the  summits  rise  to  no 
mean  heights.  With  the  sultry  shimmer  on  the 
downs,  and  the  blue  haze  of  distance  oi'  thj  high- 
est fells,  and  white  sheep  browsing  over  down  and 
fell,  one  might  imagine  the  billows  of  the  sea, 
shifting  slowly,  calmly,  one  down-sinking  for  an- 
other still  to  take  its  place.  At  least,  I  remember 
to  have  heard  Kester  say  so  once ;  and  he,  being 
far  enough  from  imaginative,  and  having  been  a 
sailor  all  his  youth,  I  am  inclined  to  think  must 
have  been  exact. 

But  this  day  the  browsing  sheep  were  not  scat- 
tered over  down  and  fell,  to  break  the  purpled 


1 1 


68 


WEARITHORNE. 


heather  with  a  dash  of  white,  like  foam.  They 
were  all  gathered  where  the  slow,  cozy  stream, 
which  we  of  the  dales  call  a  syke,  wirds  sullen  and 
broad  about  the  base  of  Moss-Edge,  hiding  through 
the  reeds  and  snowy  overstooping  burtree  boughs. 
And  Davie  o*  Burtree-syke,  who  lives  just  at  the 
southern  base  of  Moss-Edge,  where  the  stream  is 
creeping  northward  before  it  turns  due  west  with 
fuller  sweep  and  greater  haste  to  lose  itself  in  the 
torrent  of  Helbeck  Lund, — bluff  Davie  w:s  there, 
and  Adam  o'  Linn  Brig  with  all  his  household, 
and  two  or  three  households  more. 

For  it  was  the  busy  season,  and  my  one  gay 
yearly  festivity,  our  own  slieep-washing ;  for  Kes- 
ter  would  never  let  me  to  the  sheep-washings  and 
shearings  at  Linn  Brig  and  elsewhere.  Even 
Kester's  unpopularity  was  set  aside  now,  and  the 
neighbors  flocked  to  his  r'ub,  as  he  in  his  turn 
went  to  theirs,  and  hi^  f  oors  were  set  wide,  and 
his  table  groaned  with  the  weight  of  a  mighty 
banquet.  There  was  true  thrift  in  that,  and  Kester 
knew  it. 

Letty  and  I,  and  Adam's  Elsy,  and  Hie  Nanny 
from  Rivelin,  had  been  busied  in  the  noontide  rest 
with  bearing  round  the  cans  of  sweetened  rum-and- 
milk  to  the  tired  men.  Nanny  and  Elsy  were  smiling 
and  nodding,  with  a  jest  and  a  gibe  for  every  one, 
and  a  box  on  the  ear,  perhaps,  for  a  saucier  or  a 
bolder  lad.  But,  in  spite  of  my  girlish  satisfaction 
at  the  merrymaking  and  the  rustic  court  paid  me 


I  • 


WEARITHORNE. 


69 


ter 


by  Laurie  o*  Linn  Brig  and  one  or  two  others,  my 
anticipations  were  never  altogether  pleasurable. 
For  Laurie  and  the  rest  did  not  appear  to  have 
spirit  enough,  as  I  thought, — perhaps,  indeed,  lik- 
ing enough, — boldly  to  run  counter  to  the  prejudice 
against  Mallerstang,  and  join  the  lonely  lassie  on 
her  way  from  kirk  or  fair.  They  had  been  rather 
blind  some  Sundays  past,  upon  the  road ;  it  was 
not  to  be  desired  now  that  they  should  glance  with 
any  show  of  bashful  admiration. 

And  to-day,  especially,  something  in  the  whole 
scene  jarred  upon  me.  Perhaps,  as  Kester  said, 
my  visits  to  Wearithorne  wrought  m^  little  good. 
The  companionship  of  the  men  and  women  of  the 
book-world  there  wearied  me  with  the  life  and 
manners  and  surroundings  which  fell  to  my  lot. 
And  then,  in  these  last  two  months,  glimp'^es  into 
another  than  that  book-world,  or  than  this  of  a  .laller- 
stang,  were  opening  to  me.  Faint,  far-away  glimpses 
into  that  other  world, — Fool's  Paradise  it  may  be, 
yet  the  wisest  ones  have  crossed  its  boundaries  and 
stumbled  blindly  into  it.  And  I,  who  was  never 
overwise,  loitering  along  the  adjacent  border-land, 
might  well  stray  unawares  across.  Friendship, — 
Miles  Lethwaite's  friendship 

I  lifted  my  eyes  suddenly,  with  something  not 
far  removed  from  scorn,  upon  young  Laurie,  as  I 
was  roused  from  my  reverie  by  a  compliment  of 
the  broadest.  And  forthwith  I  raised  my  empty 
can  upon  my  head,  and  followed  the  syke's  beck- 


i--" 

9 
1 1 


70 


WEARITHORNE. 


\ '. 


oning,  round  a  clump  of  drooping  alders,  beyond 
sight  and  sound  of  the  merrymakers. 

It  was  meet  for  taking  up  a  broken  reverie 
there,  winding  slowly  and  more  slowly  with  the 
windings  of  the  broadening,  reed-fringed  stream, 
and  plucking  handfuls  of  the  blossoms  under-foot, 
when  I  would  stoop  from  the  level  sweeji  of  sun- 
shine over  the  outlying  pasture-fields. 

And  to-day  still  reverie  and  idle  thoughts  were 
bound  together  with  that  journal  of  my  mother's. 
These  two  months  it  had  been  my  constant,  secret 
companion,  and  now  I  had  drawn  it  forth,  too 
precious  ever  to  be  laid  out  of  my  own  safe-keep- 
ing, and,  in  turning  over  the  earlier  leaves,  had 
chanced  upon  a  ballad  there.  There  was  a  ring 
about  it  like  the  ring  of  an  old  air  I  had  heard 
Marget  sing, — a  wild  air  of  these  dales, — it  almost 
seemed  the  sullen  beck  took  up  the  refrain : 


Over  the  moorland  the  river  is  creeping, 

Darkly  and  sullenly,  down  to  the  seaj 
Only  a  chill  under-cun-ent  is  threeping, 

There  where  t'.e  rushes  are  shivering  dree. 
Shivering,  quivering  through  the  late  gloaming, 

Sweeping  their  tarnished  brown  garments  aside, 
Shuddering  back  to  make  room  for  one  coming, — 

Weird  for  that  chuckle  thrills  on  through  the  tide,- 
Bowing  the  head, — 

Rustling  apart  to  make  room  for  the  dead. 


Over  the  moorland  the  gowans  and  heather 
Nod  their  gude-morn 


WEARITHORNE, 


n 


"  Gude-morn !" 

The  salutation  behind  me  was  so  sudden  that  I 
nearly  dropped  the  milk-can  from  my  head,  with 
the  great  start  I  gave.  I  turned,  my  arm  upraised 
to  steady  it,  and  stood  face  to  face  with  Miles 
Lethwaite. 

As  well  as  I  might,  beneath  that  odd  head- gear, 
I  made  my  stiff  little  courtesy,  and  would  have 
gone  my  way  past  him  without  more  ado.  I 
had  come  to  the  path  which  crossed  over  from 
Stockdale  to  the  upper  edge  of  Helbeck  Lund, 
and  so  on  into  Swaledale.  That  way  led  his  steps 
to  Wearithorne ;  I  would  fain,  in  my  shyness,  that 
they  had  passed  straight  on,  nor  paused  for  me. 

But  they  did  pause,  and  fell  in  with  mine  along 
the  margin  of  the  stream. 

"  I  could  wish  I  had  not  given  you  gude-morn 
just  then,"  he  said;  "  you  have  cut  short  your  song 
so  suddenly." 

"  It's  like  Marget  may  pleasure  you,  if  you  bid 
her,"  I  returned.  "  It  is  an  old  tune  I've  heard 
from  her  since  I  was  a  little  one." 

"  And  you  like  the  old  songs  dearly  well  ?" 

"  1  hey  are  ^<ty  sweet,  I  think." 

"  I  think  so  too,"  he  said,  looking  at  me.  "  But 
do  you  like  the  old  rhymes  better  than  the  new 
ones  ?  Those,  for  instance,  you  were  reading  in 
the  library  that  evening  when  I  came  upon  you 
unawares  ?" 

The  allusion  turned  me  hot  and  cold  in  a  breath, 


MP 


7? 


WEARITHORNE. 


half  minded  to  brush  past,  and  so  escape  facing 
him. 

'*  No,  you  are  not  to  flit  from  me  so,"  he  remon- 
strated. "  Surely  I  deserve  better  at  your  hands, 
if  only  for  the  meekness  with  which  I  that  evening 
received  that  sharp  speech  of  yours  about  the  err- 
ing absentee  master  of  Wearithorne." 

'*  I'm  main  and  sorry,"  broke  from  me,  impa- 
tiently, "that  you  did  at  last  remember  Weari- 
thorne.  You  might  have  left  me  yet  a  little  time 
to  be  as  happy  as  I  could." 

"And  how  does  my  home-coming  mar  your 
happiness?"  ' 

"  Wearithorne  was  the  one  blithe  spot  in  my 
life,"  I  answered,  with  as  much  resentment  as  if 
Wearithorne  were  mine  and  he  had  robbed  me 
of  it. 

"  Poor  child !  what  life  can  yours  be,  when  a 
lonely  hour  in  a  dark  old  library  is  the  one  bright 
spot  in  it?" 

"  What  life  ?"  I  reiterated.  "  An  you  have  heard 
old  Kester's  name,  you  might  know  fast  enough 
what  life." 

If  I  brushed  one  unbidden  tear  furtively  away, 
I  am  afraid  I  was  caught  in  the  act.  He  was 
graver  cis  he  said, — 

"  Why  should  Wearithorne  be  less  to  you  now  ? 
Nannette,  it  should  be  more  to  you.  Only  let  me 
tell  my  mother  how  but  for  you,  that  night " 

"  No,  no.     I  hold  you  by  your  promise  then." 


WEARITHORNE. 


73 


He  yielded  slowly  and  reluctantly. 

"At  least  you  will  come  to  Marget,  as  usual? 
Surely,  you  know  the  library  is  open  to  you.  And 
my  mother  will  welcome  you  there." 

If  there  were  a  half-pause  of  doubt — the  slight- 
est of  slight  hesitations — in  the  close  of  his  speech, 
perhaps  he  hardly  knew  it,  so  quickly  my  words 
came  in  as  an  interruption : 

"  You  are  very  good.  But  I  could  not  go,  of 
course." 

He  bent  his  head  for  a  glimpse  of  the  face 
under  the  broad  black  shadow  of  my  hat.  But  he 
would  not  find  any  false  pride  there.  Some  intui- 
tive feeling  kept  me  back  from  throwing  myself 
on  Mrs.  Lethwaite's  gratitude.  And,  gratitude  set 
aside,  what  could  I  expect  from  her  ?  I  was  not 
overwise  in  those  days,  certainly;  yet  I  knew  a 
gracious  welcome  from  the  mistress  at  Wearithorne 
was  not  to  be  looked  for  by  a  Nannette  o'  Kester 
o'  Mallerstang,  going  in  and  out  of  the  library  on 
the  rash  permission  of  the  young  master. 

"  You  are  a  sunny-tempered  little  soul,  as  you 
are  proud,"  said  Miles  then,  watching  me.  "  But 
if  you  will  not  come  to  Wearithorne  library,  Wea- 
rithorne library  must  come  to  you." 

"That  it  must  not ;  Uncle  Kester  '11  never  like  it." 

Miles  Lethwaite  looked  at  me  steadily  and 
significantly. 

"  Why  are  you  so  sure  he  would  not  like  me  ?" 

"  He, — he  likes  nobody  at  all." 

7 


I-       * 


I) 


74 


WEARITHORNE. 


"  Not  even  his  niece  Nannette  ?" 

"  Not  even  his  niece  Nannette." 

"  A  singular  Uncle  Kester,  indeed.  But  for  once, 
this  evening,  only  to  bring  the  book." 

I  shook  my  head. 

"  This  evening  Uncle  Kester  '11  be  no  that  good- 
humored,  seeing  all  the  rum-and-milk,  berry  pasties, 
and  good  legs  of  mutton  and  sweet-pies  have  stolen 
out  of  his  larder  the  day.  Even  I  shun  crossing 
Uncle  Kester  when  he  has  been  whiles  so  over- 
hospitable.  But, — could  you  bring  the  book  here 
instead  ?  and  leave  it  for  me,  in  among  the  ferns, 
just  here  at  this  old  hurtree's  root?" 

With  the  request  came  the  sense  of  its  hardi- 
hood.    But  I  was  reassured  by  Miles's 

"  Not  leave  it, — you  must  come  for  it,  and  we'll 
make  it  an  hour  earlier  than  sunset,  then." 

We  were  walking  on  together  silently,  retracing 
my  path  now ;  and  there  where  I  had  idly  droppc  j 
them,  a  knot  of  daisies  and  purple  loosestrife  lay, 
and  campion-pinks,  and  the  pimpernel  that  shuts 
its  blue  eyes  fast  when  rain  is  gathering. 

"  The  world  may  find  the  spring  in  following  her," 

Miles  said,  as  his  glance  had  followed  mine  to  the 
bloom-strewn  sod.  "  Only,  it  is  a  very  April-spring, 
Nannette,  I  find  in  you." 

"  Naunty  Marget  calls  April  a  right-down  silly 
month,"  I  put  in,  "  laughing  at  the  sad,  greeting  at 
the  glad,  like  the  Bible-children  in  the  market- 
place  " 


WEARITHORNE. 


n 


The  word  was  cut  short ;  for  in  the  midst,  my  foot 
slipped  on  the  oozy  bank ;  and,  in  putting  up  both 
hands  to  save  the  milk-pail,  I  dropped  the  packet 
all  this  while  held  hidden  in  the  folds  of  my  kirtle. 

Miles  Leti»waite  stooped  for  it.  But  I  was  before 
him,  had  caught  it  up,  and  with  a  glance  half  con- 
fused, half  laughing,  over  my  shoulder,  I  sprang 
past  him. 

He  was  too  quick  for  me.  He  stood  before  me 
in  the  narrow  way.  Between  the  water  and  the  oozy 
bottom-land. 

"  Not  so  fast,  Nannette.  I'll  not  steal  more  of 
your  secret.  ~  I've  seen  a  corner  of  it  peeping  from 
the  folds  of  your  dress  ever  since  we  turned." 

"  It's  no  a  secret,"  I  began, then  colored  and 

hesitated,  remembering  that  it  was. 

"  Pardon  me," — and  I  could  feel  how  he  was 
watching, — "  I  did  not  mean  to  annoy  you." 

"You — you  do  not  annoy  me."  And  then  I 
lifted  my  head. 

I  knew  what  he  imagined,  and  my  thought 
flashed  back  to  Laurie  and  his  fellows  with  swift 
scorn.  I  never  stopped  to  consider  what  mattered 
to  me  anything  Miles  Lethwaite  might  imagine. 
He  should  not  think  that  of  me.  And  as  I  looked 
up  into  the  bronzed,  bearded  face  above  me,  there 
was  something  in  it  gave  me  sudden  courage.  I 
was  not  afraid  of  him ;  and  I  was  afraid  of  Kester. 
Might  not  this  man  help  me,  by  his  counsel  at 
least,  and  his  judgment  ? 


1 


7^ 


76 


WEARITHORNE. 


"  It  is  no  secret,"  I  said  again, "  but  a  perplexity." 
And  I  held  my  packet,  journal  and  letter,  out  to 
him. 

"  A  perplexity  in  which  I  can  help  you  ?" 

I  nodded.  "  I  think  you  can.  I'm  feared  to 
question  Uncle  Kester." 

It  might  have  seemed  strange  to  Miles  Leth- 
waite  that  I  should  have  turned  to  him  so  almost 
without  hesitation.  For  he  could  not  understand 
how  he  was  never  a  stranger  to  me ;  how  I  had 
spent  many  a  half-hour  of  my  lonely  life,  looking 
up  dreamily  and  wonderingly  to  the  boy  whose 
glance  met  mine  in  the  library  at  VVeariti.orne. 
And  when  I  raised  my  head  just  then,  and  met  the 
same  frank,  earnest  eyes,  it  was  as  if  I  had  come 
to  an  old  friend  for  aid. 

The  explanation  I  had  to  preface  with  was  brief. 
And  then  he  loosed  the  riband,  leaning  on  his  arm 
beside  me,  where  I  took  my  seat  on  a  mossy  knoll 
above  the  stream. 

He  read  on  without  comment  till  he  had  ended 
all. 

"  What  will  ever  Uncle  Kester  say  ?"  I  sighed, 
folding  the  papers  together.  "  He'll  flyte  at  me 
so 

"  Stay,"  Miles  said,  detaining  me  as  I  knotted 
the  faded  riband  fast  again.  "  It  is  not  clear  to 
me  that  any  one  of  these  belongs  to  Kester  or  to 
you." 

I  half  rose. 


WEARITHORNE. 


77 


M 


Ibe- 


"  If  you  think  I  would  deceive  you— 
gan,  hotly. 

He  turned  round  on  me  his  grave  face,  in  which 
there  was  a  something — ^a  sudden  shade  of  care,  a 
troubled  thoughtfulness — unwonted  there. 

"  You  know  I  do  not  think  that,  Nannette.  But 
there  is  more  in  this  matter  than  one  can  see  all  at 
once.  Have  you  confidence  enough  in  me  to  trust 
them  all  with  me  ?" 

I  put  them  all  into  his  hands  without  a  word. 
Neither  did  he  say  anything  to  assure  me  of  their 
safety. 

There  we  lingered,  he  and  I,  together.  It  did 
not  appear  to  suggest  itself  to  either  of  us  that 
time  was  wearing  on,  or  that  there  was  any  reason 
for  our  going  our  several  ways.  In  truth,  it  was 
so  sweet  down  there.  The  beck  was  winding  its 
green  riband  out  at  our  feet, — winding  it  slowly,  in 
among  the  stooping  boughs  and  reed-fringed  banks, 
as  loth  to  draw  away  into  the  shadow  of  the  cliffs, 
whose  dark  reflections  must  blot  out  the  smiling 
of  the  sky.  Miles  Lethwaite  had  pushed  his  hat 
lower  on  his  brows,  and  was  looking  from  its  covert 
straight  into  my  face,  where  I  sat  on  the  knoll 
somewhat  above  him.  And  for  me — I  could  but 
look  away — could  not  keep  back  the  hot  flush  I 
felt  coming  and  going  in  my  cheeks.  And  through 
the  hush,  the  burn, 

"  As  through  the  glen  it  wimpl't," 
7* 


1 


IW 


78 


WEARITHORNE. 


\ 


rang  out  faint  and  low  some  hint  of  a  time  to  come, 
when  he  and  I  should  have  traced  out  my  mother's 
•story,  as  the  winding  of  the  stream  from  the  hid- 
den spring  into  the  outer  sunshine.  And  then, — 
then,  if  my  mother  were  indeed  as  she  seemed 
written  down,  would  I,  because  of  being  Kester's 
niece,  be  so  far  from  the  Master  of  Wearithorne 
that  we  should  not  clasp  friendly  hands  ? 

For  as  yet,  if  in  the  gurgle  any  chime  of  bells 
rang  "out  for  another  hand-clasping,  it  was  but  very 
faintly,  and  I  did  not  understand  even  while  I 
listened. 

At  last  Miles  spoke  : 

"  Nannette,  what  have  you  thought  about  these 
papers  ?    What  have  you  imagined  they  led  to  ?" 

"  If  you  only  wouldn't  ask  me !" 

"  Yet  I  do  ask." 

"  I  think  they  are  written  by  my  mother,  and  I 
think — you  will  laugh,  perhaps.  Colonel  Lethwaite, 
but  I  do  think  my  mother  was  a  lady.  How  she 
came  to  marry  Uncle  Kester's  brother,  that  I 
cannot  tell.  But  I  feel  sure,  at  least,  she  was  a 
lady." 

"  And  if  you  should  be  disappointed,  Nannette  ? 
If  these  letters,  after  all,  lead  to  nothing  for  you  ? 
If  Kester  should  some  way  have  gotten  them  in 
his  keeping,  not  from  your  mother,  but  from  Wea- 
rithorne ?  I  do  not  say  it  is  so ;  but  it  strikes  me 
as  more  than  possible." 

It  was  such  a  sudden  blow,  the  mere  suggestion 


WEARITIIORNE, 


79 


of  that  possibility,  that  for  the  moment  I  forgot  the 
paper  I  had  burned, — the  paragraph  with  Kester's 
name,  which  linked  the  whole  with  Kester.  I 
looked  up  to  Miles  piteously,  my  lip  quivering  as 
I  tried  to  speak.  Looked  up,  but  could  hardly  see 
his  face  for  the  swift  tears  in  my  eyes.  So  I  was 
taken  altogether  by  surprise  when  he  suddenly 
stooped  and  kissed  my  quivering  mouth. 

I  dashed  away  the  tears  with  a  hand  which 
trembled  only  in  my  wrath.  I  sprang  to  my  feet 
and  stood  facing  him,  no  longer  embarrassed,  but 
startled  out  of  all  bashfulness.  This  was  the  gen- 
tleman whom  I  had  trusted  ?  Why,  even  Laurie 
would  not  have  been  so  rude  as  that. 

Miles,  too,  had  risen,  and  stood  before  me,  his 
own  color  heightened  as  that  which  burned  in  my 
hot  cheeks,  but  his  eyes  looking  straightway  into 
mine.  Straightway,  and  frankly,  as  if  he  was  by 
no  means  ashamed  of  what  he  had  done. 

"  I  could  not  help  it,  Nannette,"  he  said,  boldly. 
"  There's  no  use  in  expecting  a  fellow  to  help  it 
when  you  put  up  such  a  face  as  that,  and  so  like  a 
distressed  child's.  Could  I  help  seeing  it  is  lovely  ? 
and  could  I  help  loving  it  ?" 

I  forgot  all  about  the  letters, — forgot  everything 
but  my  passionate  indignation, — and  turned  from 
him  without  a  word.  I  sprang  in  among  the  alder- 
boughs;  sprang  past  him  when  he  would  have 
stopped  me.  So  near  the  dub  was  our  quiet 
trysting-place,  that  a  few  swift  movements  brought 


I' 

tili 


80 


WEARITBORNE. 


me  in  full  v'v  v.    I  was  very  sure  he  would  not 
follow  me  there. 

And  presently  I,  watching",  saw  the  alder-boughs 
round  the  green  cove  shake  as  with  one  brushing 
through  them.    Then  I  knew  that  he  was  gone. 


V. 


For  not  a  sun  o'er  earth  e'er  rose  or  set, 

But  traced  some  furrow  set  by  sin  or  sorrow : 

The  past's  pale  ghost  still  haunts  the  coming  morrow, 

The  shortest  life  hath  something  to  forget. 

DAYS  had  worn  away,  and  Sunday  with  them^ 
and  even  then  I  had  seen  nothing  more  of 
Liilcs  Lethwaite.  The  Lethwaite  pew  was  in  the 
moorside  kirk  of  Bowbridge,  not  far  off  upon  the 
Swale ;  while  Letty  and  I  were  wont  to  repair  to- 
gether on  our  shaggy  dun  ponies  all  the  long  way 
to  Sedbergh, — I  having  a  fancy  for  the  humble  old 
Firbank  chapel  on  its  rocky  ledge  hard  by ;  Letty, 
half  Friend,  half  "  Methodee,"  as  she  was,  stopping 
at  the  meeting  below,  where  alone  of  all  the  coun- 
try-side the  "  pure  word"  was  dispensed. 

So  long  ago,  that  common  words  in  speaking  of 
those  days  have  a  far-off  echo  in  them.  Yet  how 
the  time  between  vanishes,  while  I  am  glancing 
over  this  book,  worn  and  faded  now ! — not  only 
worn  and  faded,  but  bearing  some  stains  of  long 
ago.  For  it  lay  on  the  marge  of  the  syke,  under 
thu*  burtree,  for  days  and  nights, — so  did  my  wrath 
hold  out.  But  on  the  Thursday  after  our  sheep- 
washing,  Kester  sent  me  up  to  Moss-Edge  for  the 
pCdts.    And  as  I  crossed  the  syke,  I  could  not 

(8i) 


f 


82 


WEARITHORNE. 


\  \ 


i    \ 


choose  but  wonder  if  Miles  had  come  there  again, 
— had  brought  the  book  he  promised.  So,  before 
I  thought  I  had  fairly  determined  what  to  do,  I 
found  myself  following  the  course  of  the  stream, 
until  I  came  where  Miles  and  I  had  parted. 

And  the  book  was  there,  just  peeping  out  from 
among  the  ferns.  The  dews  had  soaked  it  where 
it  lay ;  the  dainty  binding  was  defaced  and  blurred ; 
and  as  I  opened  it,  two  leaves  were  shredded  out 
beneath  my  touch. 

I  went  away  with  it  guiltily,  as  if  it  were  a  friend 
I  had  hurt  by  my  neglect.  And  so  I  bore  it  up  the 
hillside  and  laid  it  down  upon  a  rock  to  dry  in  the 
sunshine.  As  I  turned  the  leaves,  a  marginal  line 
caught  my  attention,  and  I  bent  above  the  open 
page, — the  same  over  which  I  was  crouching  on 
the  hearth  in  the  library  at  Wearithorne,  when  its 
master  coming  home  had  found  me  there,  poring 
over  that  fragment  of  the  "  Eve  of  St.  Mark," 
much  as  the  Bertha  of  whom  I  was  there  reading 
pores  over  her  "  curious  volume,  patched  and  torn." 
Here  and  there  in  the  poem  a  stanza  underlined 
hinted  how  Miles  Lethwaite  had  stood  and  watched, 
while  I 

"  Leaned  forward  with  bright,  drooping  hair, 
And  slant  book,  full  against  the  glare." 

And  then  on  the  margin, — happen  no  eyes  but 
mine  could  trace  them  now,  so  blurred  the  pencilled 
words, — two  lines  from  the  poem  over  the  leaf: 


Jiiii 

Oil! 


WBARITHORNB. 


83 


**  What  can  I  do  to  drive  away 
Remembrance  from  my  eyes  ?" 

Had  Miles  written  that  when  he  came  to  the 
syke  and  found  I  had  failed  to  keep  the  tryst  ?  1 
would  not  say  yes,  even  to  myself  Yet  I  bent  over 
the  page,  until  with  a  sudden  flush  I  sprang  up  and 
remembered  that  in  this  way  hardly  would  the 
peats  be  stacked. 

It  was  pleasant  work  enough,  this  that  I  had 
before  me  all  the  day.  This  fell  belonged  to  Mal- 
lerstang,  so  Kester  went  shares  with  no  one  on  it, 
as  many  of  the  neighbors  did  upon  the  fells ;  but 
the  who'c  "  peat-pot"  of  Moss-Edge  was  his  in  his 
own  rigiiL.  It  was  his  custom  to  go  up  for  a  sum-^ 
mer  day  to  cut  the  peats,  and  then  send  me  on  the 
next,  to  follow  the  traces  of  his  spade,  and  to  prop 
one  piece  of  turf  rooflike  against  another,  that  the 
wind  in  blowing  through,  might  dry  them.  It  was 
easy  work  enough, — merry  work  enough,  too, 
sometimes  it  was  made, — for  I  had  seen  Bessy  o' 
Stockdale  and  her  next  neighbor  Elsy  following 
their  brothers'  spades  on  Shunnor  Fell,  and  mak- 
ing a  frolic  out  of  the  long  day's  labor.  But  Kes- 
ter and  I  never  worked  thus  together.  The  sight 
of  me  often  irked  him ;  and  he  would  rather  come 
hither  done  to  do  his  part  of  cutting,  and  send  me 
afterward  to  my  lighter  task  of  setting  the  peats 
up.  That  which  Kester  preferred  in  this,  I  too  pre- 
ferred assuredly.  So  many  hours  in  sullen  silence 
would  have  been  formidable;  but  upoij  such  a  morn- 


I 


84 


WEARITHORNE. 


ing  as  this  to  wander  forth  over  the  lofty  heath, 
and  bide  all  day  long  in  the  open  air,  with  only  the 
lark  floating  above  me,  or  the  bees'  hum  in  the 
ling, — that,  indeed,  was  worth  a  whole  week's  bend- 
ing over  knitting,  which  would  never  grow  familiar 
in  my  hands. 

It  was  so  pleasant  to  be  wandering  there  over  the 
broad,  flat  moss, — to  breathe  the  breezy  aromatic 
scent, — to  watch  the  shimmer  of  the  vapor  rising 
in  the  sun  across  the  black  peat-pot,-— to  leave  my 
work  and  idly  stand  upon  the  brow,  leaning  over  the 
stone  wall  which  here  divides  the  peat-moss  from 
the  highest  in-take  up  the  fell-side,  where  the  sheep 
were  pasturing. 

I  never  go  there  now  but  that  tranquil  day  is 
over  me  again.  I  am  listening  to  the  lo wings  from 
the  pastures  round, — to  the  gurgle  of  the  syke 
glinting  down  through  the  burtree  thicket  in  the 
westward  hollow  between  Moss-Edge  and  our 
Mallerstang  Hag.  I  see,  as  I  saw  then,  Letty's 
bit  cottage  nestled  close  beneath  the  Hag,  with  its 
one  spreading  apple-tree,  and  its  half-acre  of  prawd 
potato-ground ;  and  opposite,  the  white,  broad  farm- 
house of  Davie  o'  Burtree-syke.  And  I  see,  too,  all 
the  lights  and  shades  where  Eastern  Stockdale 
sweeps  its  billowy  undulations  to  the  fells  that  bar 
them  back,  with  views  above  the  lesser,  nearer 
heights,  of  Houghill  and  Bowfells  to  the  southwest, 
Shunnor  and  Lovely-Seat  to  the  east,  and  between 
their  broad,  full  swells  the  cloudy  brows  of 


WEARITHORNE. 


85 


"  Penyghent  and  Ingleborough, 
The  highest  hills  all  England  thorough," 

according  to  our  proud  dale  rhyme. 

But  all  at  once  I  started  and  drew  back  from  my 
place  on  the  wall.  For  moorland  and  fell  and  beck 
no  longer  were  all  my  own  in  their  unbroken  soli- 
tude. There  was  some  one  coming  even  now, 
around  the  northern  base  of  this  same  fell. 

I  would  have  known  him  even  at  a  greater  dis- 
tance. Would  have  known  him  even  had  he  not 
ridden  along  that  syke  as  perhaps  no  other  mari 
would  ride,  checking  his  horse  and  coming  slowly, 
thoughtfully  along,  in  the  self-same  track  I  had 
taken  when  I  met  him  there.  He  neared  that  bur- 
tree  clump, — when  suddenly  he  flung  himself  out 
of  the  saddle,  and  I  saw  him  treading  down  the 
ferns  here  and  there,  as  though  to  find  out  anything 
that  might  lie  hidden  in  their  keeping.  I  knew  well 
enough  he  would  find  nothing.  And  then,  remount- 
ing, he  looked  back,  toward  a  wreath  of  smoke 
from  Mallerstang  chimney,  "a  frown  upon  the 
atmosphere."  Looked,  and,  taking  off  his  hat, 
waved  it  with  a  triumphant  flourish. 

He  did  not  think  that  wave  might  have  been 
answered  near  at  hand, — here  on  the  fell's  brow, 
in  the  midst  of  the  dark  lines  of  peat.  But  he  put 
'-^^urs  to  his  horse  and  dashed  off  at  full  speed ; 
and  I  caught  one  glimpse,  and  then  another,  as  he 
passed  up  Stockdale  toward  the  road  to  Hawes  and 
Askrigg. 


" 


li 


86 


WEARITIIORNE. 


I    I 


It  was  Thursday,  market-day  at  Askrigg ;  and, 
accustomed  to  the  habits  of  the  country-people 
round  me,  I  leaped  to  my  conclusion.  He  was 
bound  there,  and  was  safe  for  all  day,  since  the  ride 
was  long.  And  I, — should  I  lose  such  an  oppor- 
tunity ?  I  would  not  go  near  Wearithorne  while 
I  might  meet  him ;  but  now  that  he  was  away,  why 
should  I  not  see  Naunty  Marget,  question  her,  and 
beg  her  to  question  Kester  about  those  letters  and 
my  mother? 

Those  peats  had  not  the  power  to  hold  me  back. 
No  sign  of  rain  in  all  the  sky, — to-morrow  would 
do  as  well  for  them,  besides  giving  me  another 
breezy  hill-top  holiday.  I  was  not  sufficiently  in 
awe  of  Kester  to  be  bound  down  to  any  task  by 
the  thought  of  him. 

And  so  I  turned  my  back  on  the  sods  awaiting 
me,  and  straight  went  down  the  fell-side,  to  the 
margin  of  the  syke. 

I  too  followed  it ;  but  i*"  the  contrary  direction 
from  that  which  Miles  Lethwaite  had  taken,  I  too 
paused  when  I  came  to  the  spot  where  he  had  dis- 
mounted ;  but  not  quite  with  the  purpose  he  had 
had.  I  stooped  and  laid  the  book  near  where  he 
had  stooped  to  look  for  it.  The  hoof-print  of  his 
horse  was  yet  upon  the  oozy  sod,  and  there  I  deftly 
bent  down  the  ferns  around,  not  to  conceal,  but  to 
make  it  appear  they  had  concealed,  the  book.  I 
too  waved  my  hat;  not  toward  Mallerstang,  but 
in  the  direction  of  the  road  by  which  he  had  gone 


WBARITHORNE. 


8r 


by.  I  did  not  altogether  fancy  that  triumphant 
wave  of  his.  Now,  if  luck  would  but  have  it, 
that  he  should  return  this  way !  If  Hob  o'  the 
Hurst,  or  any  other  of  the  canny  "  fairishes "  of 
these  haunted  wolds,  would  but  direct  Miles's 
glance,  and  while  it  yet  was  light  enough  to  see  ! 
I  could  but  trust  to  such  luck  and  such  friendly 
offices. 

The  way  by  which  Miles  had  come,  though  quite 
as  direct  for  his  ride  as  the  regular  Swaledale  road, 
was  somewhat  longer  to  Wearithorne  than  my 
wonted  path  through  Helbeck  Lund.  But  what  it 
took  in  length  it  made  up  in  ease ;  and  I  was  soon 
across  the  open  ii\por  that  stretched  between  Hel- 
beck Lund  and  Wearithorne ;  soon  on  the  avenue 
to  the  House. 

They  were  so  bright,  those  glowing  lines  of 
limes,  that  I  forgot  half  my  dulness  as  they  arched 
above,  and  made  the  air  musical  with  bees  and 
heavy  with  the  scent  of  light-winged  blossoms. 

But  about  the  house  there  was  a  gloom  now  as 
of  those  old  days  passed  a^ay, — a  strange  hush 
over  all  the  place.  No  door  set  hospitably  wide  ; 
shutters  were  closed  here  and  there.  A  something 
of  foreboding  stule  over  me,  and  very  quietly  and 
timidly  I  went  round  to  Naunty  Marget's  wing,  to 
find  it  closed ;  and  when  I  opened  the  door,  no  one 
within. 

No  sound  as  I  passed  in.  I  began  to  think  the 
house  was  left  unto  me  desolate. 


88 


WEARITHORNE. 


I  went  through  the  kitchen  into  the  dairy,  back 
again,  and  into  the  library  at  last. 

But,  as  I  stood  there  wondering,  I  heard  a  step 
without. 

Naunty  Marget's  step ;  but  it  was  not  like  her 
to  draw  back  with  so  agitated  a  start. 

"  Well-a-day !  Who'd  ha'  thought  o'  seeing  the 
lass  here  ?"  And  her  voice  fairly  broke  down,  and 
one  tear  after  another  coursed  its  way  down  her 
wrinkled  cheeks. 

1  drew  her,  unresisting,  into  the  library,  and 
seated  her  in  an  arm-chair,  taking  from  her  the 
tray  she  was  carrying.  There  were  the  remains  of 
an  invalid's  breakfast  upon  it ;  thus  much  I  took 
in  at  a  glance  before  I  set  it  down.  Illness,  then, 
perhaps, — but  not  death, — had  crossed  the  thresh- 
old before  me.  I  knelt  down  at  Naunty's  side  and 
took  those  withered  hands,  so  strangely  passive 
now,  wont  to  be  quick  and  helpful  and  full  of 
energy,  in  both  my  own. 

"  Naunty,  what  is  it  ?  You  must  tell  me, — you 
must  let  me  help  you." 

But  the  hands  were  wrung  from  me, — wrung  in 
a  passionate,  helpless  anguish. 

"  Thou  canna  help  me,  bairn  ;  thou  mun  go  back. 
Thou's  no  call  here, — not  thou,  not  thou,  o'  a* 
ithers." 

"And  why  not  I,  Naunty?  Do  you  thiu  c  I'd 
leave  you  in  your  trouble  ?  Is  it  the  fever  ?  Is  it 
Mrs.  Lethwaite  who  is  ill  ?     Come,  tell  me, — bet- 


WEARITIIORNE. 


89 


ter  sune  as  syne.  Because,  if  you  do  not,  here  I 
stay  in  any  case." 

And  as  I  knelt  there  still  at  her  side,  I  folded 
my  arms  very  resolutely,  yet  with  something  of  an 
appalled  sense  of  my  hardihood.  For  certainly  I 
had  never  before  ventured  to  brave  Marget ;  and  I 
would  not  have  been  surprised  had  she  taken  me 
quietly  by  the  arm  and  marched  me  out  of  doors, 
as  I  had  seen  her  do  a  froward  child. 

But  she  did  nothing  of  the  kind.  She  only 
turned  her  head  and  looked  at  me  fixedly.  And 
then  she  rocked  herself  to  and  fro  in  great  distress 
and  indecision,  half  moaning  to  herself  the  while. 

I  caught  the  burden  of  her  murmured  words. 
They  were  strange  words  for  Naunty  Marget,  who 
never  faltered  in  all  her  life  before,  I  dare  avouch. 

"What  mun  I  do?  What  mun  I  do?  What 
luck  could  weise  the  bairn  the  gate  here  ?" 

"Mrs.  Lethwaite  is  ill,  Marget?"  I  asked  her, 
suddenly. 

"  Ay,  she  is  ill." 

"  And  Colonel  Lethwaite, — he  is  away,  and  does 
not  know  it  ?" 

"  No,  he  kens  na  it." 

"  And, — Marget,  the  servants  are  all  gone  ?" 

"  A'  but  Mally ;  she's  a-gate." 

Now  Mally,  leer  and  careless  Mally,  was  more 
than  Letty's  half-sister  in  helplessness  on  an  emer- 
gency. Therefore  it  was  easy  enough  to  come  to 
the  conclusion  which  prompted  my  next  question : 

8* 


' 


90 


WEARirilORNE, 


"  You  have  been  sitting  up  all  night  with  Mrs. 
Lethwaite,  Naunty?" 

What  a  start  she  gave,  and  how  her  lips  moved 
with  a  swift  denial!  But  that  denial  must  have 
been  a  falsehood,  for  it  could  not  pass  the  thresh- 
old of  those  lips. 

She  might  have  known  she  could  not  break 
through  the  habit  of  truth  at  this  late  day.  But 
she  merely  attempted  it  faintly,  and  sat  mute.  The 
attempt  suggested  my  next  words : 

"  Mrs.  Lethwaite  does  not  wish  her  son  to  know 
how  ill  she  is?"  I  went  on,  in  my  cross-examination. 

Marget  said  never  a  word,  and  so  that  question 
was  answered.  I  did  not  care  to  put  any  more. 
I  would  make  my  comment  on  them  now. 

"  You  know  well  enough,  Naunty,  that,  with  no 
one  but  Mally  about  you,  you  cannot  keep  the 
knowledge  of  Mrs.  Lethwaite' s  illness  from  her 
son.  You  cannot  do  everything  for  her  yourself. 
What  you  have  to  do,  is  just  to  let  me  stay  and 
help  you." 

"  Ne'er  be  in  me,  then,"  she  said,  sullenly. 
"  Thou's  niver  win  at  her." 

I  spoke  no  more,  but  I  deliberately  untied  the 
riband  of  my  hat,  and  rose,  and  laid  it  on  the 
table. 

She  looked  up  at  me  in  amazement.  "  What  has 
come  over  the  bai-n?"  she  muttered;  and  then,  in 
a  changed  voice,  "  She  doesna  speak  of  hersel', — 
thissen's  none  her  way.    It  have  been  put  intil  her 


WEARITIIORNE. 


91 


heart,  and  I  munna  stand  in  her  h'ght,  poor  bairn. 
It's  no  for  me  to  keep  a'  the  keys  at  my  own 
girdle.  I'se  nobbut  stand  aside  and  let  things  go 
as  they  will ;  I  durstna  direct  them." 

There  was  no  more  opposition  to  my  will,  but 
she  sat  a  moment  still  in  silence,  and  then  said,  in  a 
firmer  tone, — 

"  Ye  mun  know,  dearie,  yesterday  there  came  ill 
news.  The  great  Lunnon  house  where  the  Mais- 
ter's  money  were,  has  failed ;  there  is  ruin  at  the 
door." 

"  Oh,  Naunty,  ruin  ?  Must  Wearithorne  be  sold, 
— pass  away  from  the  Lethwaites  ?" 

"  Out  no !  None  so  bad  as  thattens.  But  a' 
nobbut  Wearithorne  mun  go,  and  we  make  shift  to 
be  near  and  saving.  The  news  came  yester-morn, 
and  Mrs.  Lethwaite  paid  that  fine  French  maid  o' 
hers  at  after,  and  packed  her  off  with  a'  the  ithers 
but  Mally  and  me.  She  can  keep  us  two,  poor 
leddy." 

"  And  it  is  this  that  has  made  her  ill,  Naunty?" 

She  looked  at  me,  and  her  lips  moved.  But, 
after  all,  she  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  she 
said, — 

"  She  seemed  to  bear  up  well,  just  at  the  first. 
A'  yesterday  she  went  about,  a  bit  pale  like,  but 
calm  an'  douce,  and  thp'  fnll  o'  thought  for  ivery- 
thing.  But  last  evening  sJie  and  Maister  Miles 
were  in  the  library  in  th-.-  gloaming,  and  presently 
she  came  to  her  own  chainer,  for  a'  the  world  as 


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Air 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


m//    ^^*;4>^^^ 


1.0 


1.1 


I^IM    |2.5 
2.0 


lAO 


1.8 


|l-25    |U      1.6 

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Hiotographic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


23  WEi'T  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTEk,  N.Y    <  1  .SO 

(716)  872-.  503 


4 


1 1 


93 


WEARITHORNE. 


white  and  scared  like  as  if  she'd  trysted  wi'  a 
ghost.  And  then  she  fainted  dead  away,  and  when 
I  brought  her  to  at  last,  she  bade  me  mint  nothing 
o't  to  Maister  Miles,  but  say  as  she  were  weary  and 
had  gone  to  rest.  Poor  dear,"  she  added,  under 
her  breath, — "  poor  dear,  to  rest !  And  I  watched 
by  her  a'  the  lee-lang  night." 

What  Naunty  Marget  had  heard  in  her  vigil 
through  that  lee-lang  night  I  did  not  know  then, 
nor  do  I  now.  Word  of  it  has  never  crossed  her 
lips  nor  mine.  But  I  think  she  caught  from  her 
mistress's  incoherent  speech  just  a  hint  of  the 
truth.  A  hint,  of  some  wrong  done  to  Nannette  of 
the  Hag.  More  than  that  I  do  not  believe  she 
understood.  If  she  had  guessed  what  that  wrong 
was,  and  whose  blood  ran  in  my  veins,  I  doubt  not 
she  would  have  been  altogether  true  to  me.  As  it 
was,  her  love  for  me  must  have  been  strong,  when 
it  could  make  her  "  stand  aside  and  let  things  gp 
as  they  would  ;"  when  she  "  durstna  direct  them," 
even  though  undirected  they  might  bring  harm  to 
a  Lethwaite.  My  poor  auld  Marget !  At  this  day, 
and  looking  calmly  back  upon  it  all,  I  can  see  that 
it  was  pain  and  grief  to  her  not  to  be  altogether 
true  to  me. 

"  Ye  see  just  how  it  is,"  she  went  on,  with  obvi- 
ous effort :  "  Maister  Miles  he  be  gone  to  the  law- 
yer at  Askrigg  for  to  settle  up  the  business  some 
gate.  An'  the  mistress  she  wunna  ha'  him  ken 
she's  no  that  well.   It's  oftentimes  she  dunna  come 


WEARITHORNE. 


93 


down  o'  morning,  and  so  the  Maister  dunna  think 
strange.  I  reckon  mysel'  she's  getten  a  shock  she 
wunna  be  the  better  of  so  soon  as  she  believes ; 
but  she  thinks  she's  be  up  again  to-morn.  I'se  sore 
wore  out  wi'  watching  a'  the  night,  and  '11  be  the 
better  o'  your  help,  lassie." 

"  I'll  go  now,  then,"  I  said. 

But  she  put  out  her  hand  to  detain  me,  and  a 
frightened  look  came  into  her  eyes.  Yet  she 
checked  herself,  and  said,  — 

"  The  drops  ye  mun  gie  her,  an  she  bids  ye,  are 
on  the  bit  stand  by  the  window.  Happen,  as  the 
room  is  darkened,  she  wunna  ken  the  bairn  from 
me. 

This  was  added  half  to  herself,  as  if  in  self-justifi- 
cation for  suffering  me  to  take  her  place.  But  she 
did  not  withdraw  the  permission,  and  I  went  away 
to  my  post. 

The  room  was  very  dark,  as  she  had  said,  and 
the  invalid  in  a  deep  slumber,  so  that  I  had  sat  a 
long  time  in  the  window  unobserved.  Even  when 
she  stirred  at  length,  and  called  in  a  faint  voice  for 
Marget  to  give  her  the  drops  again,  I  obeyed 
in  silence,  and  without  her  observing  that  it  was 
not  Marget  who  came  to  her. 

But  presently,  still  without  moving,  she  bade  me 
bathe  her  forehead  with  the  cologne  on  the  dress- 
ing-table. And  I  had  but  touched  her  brow  lightly 
twice  or  thrice,  when  she  put  up  her  hand  and 
caught  mine. 


94 


WEARITHORNE. 


"  This  is  surely  not  Marget,"  she  said,  turning  to 
look  at  me.  "  Is  it  you,  Mally  ?"  Then,  as  her  eyes 
grew  accustomed  to  the  dim  light,  she  said,  fret- 
fully,- 

"  I  told  Marget  I  would  have  no  other  servant 
than  Mally.  Mally  surely  ought  to  give  all  the 
assistance  she  requires.  One  would  think  things 
might  go  right  for  just  one  day,  when  one  is  ill." 

"  But  I'm  none  your  servant,  Mrs.  Lethwaite," 
said  I  from  my  window  to  which  I  had  retreated. 
"  I  only  came  to  see  Naunty  Marget,  and  I  reck- 
oned you  would  let  me  take  her  place  for  an  hour 
or  so." 

"  Naunty  Marget  ?  I  did  not  know  she  had  a 
niece." 

"  No,  madam,  but  she  has  been  rare  and  kind  to 
me,  and  I've  aye  called  her  so.  I  am  niece  to  Kes- 
ter  o'  Mallerstang  Hag." 

"  Kester !" 

The  name  came  from  her  in  a  low,  frightened 
gasp.  She  raised  herself  upon  her  arm,  crying  out, 
breathlessly, — 

"  Come  here,  girl, — put  the  window  open  wide, 
and  come  here,  quick !" 

I  hurriedly  threw  the  shutters  wide, — the  sash 
was  already  raised, — for  I  thought  she  was  faint  for 
air,  Marget, — if  she  were  but  here!  But  Mrs. 
Lethwaite  caught  my  arm  as  I  was  passing. 

"  Don't  call  any  one,"  she  said,  faintly.  "  Don't 
leave  me." 


%i 


WEARITIIORNE. 


95 


I  knelt  beside  the  couch,  and  raised  her  head. 
She  was  gasping  painfully  for  breath,  and  with  my 
free  hand  I  moistened  her  brow  and  cheeks  and 
lips  with  the  cologne.  She  was  staring  up  at  me 
with  a  horror-stricken  expression  which  alarmed 
me.  Then  her  eyes  fell,  and  she  lay  awhile  silent 
and  motionless.  But  just  as  I  began  to  hope  her 
fallen  asleep,  she  spoke  again : 

"  Do  you  know  if  Colonel  Lethwaite  is  gone 
toAskrigg?" 

"  I  heard  Marget  say  so."  ' 

"  And  he  cannot  be  here  for  some  hours  yet  ?" 

"Hardly  before  sunset,  I  should  think,  an  he 
has  aught  to  detain  him  there." 

"Then,  Annot " 

"  Nannette,  my  name  is,  Mrs.  Lethwaite."  I  do 
not  think  she  heard.     She  went  straight  on : 

"I  must  speak  to  you  before  he  comes.  Go 
and  lock  the  door  first,  that  we  may  not  be  inter- 
rupted." 

I  obeyed  in  silence,  wondering  greatly  as  I  did 
so.  Strange  as  it  seems  to  me  now  in  looking 
back,  I  had  not  the  faintest  suspicion  of  the  sub- 
ject upon  which  she  wished  to  speak  to  me. 
Had  she  taken  some  fancy  to  me, — was  perhaps 
going  to  offer  me  Mally's  place  and  feared  the 
girl  might  come  in  while  we  were  talking  it  over? 
I  drew  the  bolt  more  noisily  than  was  at  all  neces- 
sary, and  came  back  to  my  place  with  something 
of  indignation.    If  that  were  what  she  had  to  say 


I 


i 


96 


WEARITHORNE. 


to  me,  she  might  as  well  leave  the  door  wide,  for 
Mally  certainly  would  have  no  reason  to  complain 
if  she  should  overhear  my  answer. 

But  the  first  words  startled  me: 

"Annot,  you  know  my  son  Miles?" 

The  blood  rushed  to  my  face,  and  a  hundred 
wild  ideas  to  my  brain.  The  one  that  remained 
when  I  faltered  out  my  "  Yes,"  was  that  the  lady 
was  about  to  rebuke  me  for  presumption. 

Yet,  through  all  my  confusion,  there  came  a 
glow  of  satisfaction  at  the  thought  of  that  volume 
lying  among  the  ferns  upon  the  margin  of  the 
beck. 

"And  what  do  you  think  of  him,  then?"  she 
asked  next,  after  a  pause. 

I  had  not  put  that  question  to  myself,  and  it 
was  not  likely  I  would  be  prepared  with  an  answer 
for  her. 

"Come  here, — near  me,  Annot, — near,  where  I 
can  see  your  face." 

"Mrs.  I-,ethwaite,"  I  broke  in,  passionately,  "an 
you  have  aught  to  say  to  me  of  your  son,  you 
must  say  on.  I  will  listen.  But  an  you  think  to 
spy  upon  me  while  you  speak,  you  are  mistaken 
in  me.  Your  son  will  tell  you  how  we  parted, — 
he 'will  do  me  the  justice  to  tell  you  I  have 
played  no  such  daft  ploy  as  to  seek  to  lessen 
the  distance  between  us.  You  have  no  right  to 
think " 

"That  you  love  Miles?"  < 


WEARITHORNE. 


97 


The  question  fairly  took  my  breath  away.  The 
indignant  denial  died  upon  my  lips.  I  sat  there 
voiceless,  breathless,  bewildered,  and  trembling, — 
powerless  utterly  to  refute  that  which  she  had 
said.     For  her  words  were  as  a  revelation  to  me. 

"Annot " 

"My  name  is  no  Annot,"  I  broke  in,  bitterly. 
"I  am  just  Nannette  o'  Kester  o'  Mallerstang. 
Look  at  my  hands,  Mrs.  Lethwaite,"  I  said,  brav- 
ing her  utmost  scrutiny,  and  coming  forward  in 
the  light:  "they  are  sunburnt  and  toil-hardened. 
Look  at  them  beside  your  own!  Do  you  think 
I  am  blind  to  the  difference?  Do  you  think  I  do 
not  know  that  like  joins  hands  with  like?  And  do 
you  think  these  hands  are  so  weak  and  so  un- 
certain, they  will  stretch  out  for  that  beyond  their 
reach?" 

She  caught  my  hand  in  hers,  and  looked  at  it, 
and  then  wistfully  up  into  my  face. 

"At  least,"  she  said,  in  a  quivering  tone,  "the 
little  hand — sun-browned  it  is — not  over-gentle, 
and  not  so  ft  as  it  should  be, — but  it  does  not 
look  as  if  it  would  clutch  so  tenaciously  after  its 
own  rights  that  it  would  not  heed  how  it  defaced 
and  spoiled  the  life  of  others." 

"I  do  not  understand  you,"  I  said,  coldly.  "An 
you  mean  I'll  spoil  your  life  by  seeking  to  have 
any  claim  on  your  son,  you  may  rest  satisfied. 
It's  like,  the  word  he  has  spoken  was  a  mere 
nothing,    with    which    gentlemen    may  dare    to 

9 


98 


WEARITHORNE. 


lightlie  simple  country-lasses.  I  set  no  store  by 
it.  Only" — and  I  felt  the  angry  blood  rush  to 
my  brow  again — "bid  him  ken  how  it  needed  not 
his  mother  to  come  between  and  part  us;  for 
before  s^he  spoke  I  had  put  away  from  me " 

"  Softly,  little  one," — she  drew  me,  passive,  down 
upon  the  low  seat  by  her  co.uch :  "  you  must 
not  let  his  mother's  awkwardness  work  hurt  to 
Miles." 

I  stared  at  her.  Could  I  have  heard  aright? 
Was  this  proud  mother  wooing  the  peasant-girl  in 
her  son's  stead  ?  She  must  have  read  incredulity 
in  my  face,  for  she  said,  quickly, — 

"  Cannot  you  understand  his  happiness  may  be 
dearer  to  me  than  any  pride  of  birth  or  station?" 

"No,"  I  answered,  looking  full  into  her  eyes. 
"I  cannot  understand  it;  and  I  don't  believe  it." 
For  I  saw  she  quailed  from  my  gaze,  and  I  was 
not  blind  to  the  forced  smile  on  her  lips.  The 
very  clasp  of  her  soft  fingers  over  mine  was  shrink- 
ing and  reluctant.  This  woman  was  constraining 
herself  to  act  a  part,  and  it  went  hard  with  her. 
She  was  too  proud  to  throw  herself  into  it  fully; 
she  could  not  repress  all  betrayal  of  her  shrinking 
from  me ;  and  as  I  said  out  my  abrupt  speech,  I 
could  plainly  see  she  quailed. 

"An  Colonel  Lethwaite  knows  of  this '* 

"  He  does  not  know,"  she  faltered. 

"Then  he  can  speak  for  himself, — can  have  my 
answer  from  myself     But,"  I  added,  rising,  "  as  I 


V 


WEARITHORNE. 


99 


misdoubt  he  has  anything  to  ask  which  will  re- 
quire an  answer  from  me,  I  think  you  will  find 
it  wiser  to  be  silent  on  what  we  have  said." 
"And  this  is  all  you  have  to  say  to  me  ?" 
"All.  But  this,"  added  I,  in  an  after-thought: 
"  you  will  say  to  your  son,  touching  some  papers 
he  has  of  mine,  that  I  wish  him  to  return  them  to 
me.  I  shall  learn  all  I  want  from  another  person. 
I'll  not  be  beholden  to  him  for  aught  of  trouble 
about  them."  ' 

"  Those  papers,"  she  said,  with  evident  effort, — 
"my  son  showed  them  me  last  evening  in  the 
library.  What  are  they,  do  you  think?"  Then, 
quickly,  as  she  interpreted  aright  my  surprised 
glance,  "Surely  you  cannot  count  it  strange  they 
interest  me,  when  my  son  loves  you, — ay,  for  all 
you  say?" 

"  They  are  written  by  my'  mother's  hand,  and 
they  show  she  held  another  rank  from  mine.     I 
believe  that  of  them.     I  believe,  too,  I  shall  track 
out  through  them  her  name  and  her  life." 
"How  will  you  track  them  out?" 
"  I'll  never  rest  until  I  do  it,  Mrs.  Lethwaite." 
"  It  is  hardly  a  woman's  work,  dear.     Why  not 
keep  them  until  you  are  my  son's  wife,  and  then 

let  him " 

"  Mrs.  Lethwaite,"  I  cried,  suddenly,  "  those 
papers  are  something  to  you.  The  reading  of 
them  was  in  some  strange  way  a  shock  to  you. 
Their  being  mine  makes  you not  wish — but 


100 


WEARITHORNE. 


seem  to  wish — me  married  to  your  son.  What 
does  it  mean  ?  You  would  do  well  to  tell  me  the 
truth.     For  I  will  find  it  elsewhere." 

A  sharp  moan,  as  of  some  creature  entrapped, 
forced  her  white  lips  apart. 

"  What  motive  you  may  have  for  this,"  I  went 
on,  pursuing  my  advantage,  "  I  cannot  of  course 
tell  now,  but  I  will  fathom  it, — that  I  give  you  my 
word." 

She  grasped  my  dress  as  I  was  passing  her. 

"Stay, — for  Heaven's  sake,  hear  what  I  must 
say  to  you !" 

It  was  impossible  to  turn  my  back  on  her  appeal. 
I  stood  still  beside  her,  but  did  not  offer  to  sit 
down. 

"  Say  on,"  I  said,  "  but,  I  warn  you,  speak  the 
truth.  Your  words  will  be  spent  breath  else. 
Don't  dream  I  did  not  see  you  were  playing  me 
false,  even  now." 

She  turned  her  face  from  me,  but  she  answered, — 

« I  will " 

"The  truth,  Mrs.  Lethwaite;  I'll  none  be  de- 
ceived. It  shall  go  hard  but  I  will  find  some  one 
who  will  read  it  for  me  in  those  papers.  Keep 
silence  if  you  will ;  but,  if  you  speak,  you  shall 
tell  me  all." 

"  I  will,"  she  moaned.  "  The  whole  truth,  which 
I  had  not  thought  to  utter  to  a  soul.  I  would 
rather  die  than  speak  it,  but  I  would  not  rather  see 
Miles  ruined.     And  if  you  take  those  papers  from 


WEARITHORNE. 


lOI 


him,  and  put  them  into  other  hands  to  be  pushed 
to  the  uttermost,  you  will  surely  ruin  him." 

"  Ruin  him  ?     But  how  ?" 

"  Will  you  force  me  to  say  every  word  ?  Can 
you  not  understand  ?"  she  stammered,  with  white 
lips. 

I  would  not  understand.  I  would  have  the 
whole  truth  from  her.     The  whole  truth. 

"  They  prove  Wearithorne  yours,  my  son  beg- 
gared. Worse  than  beggared;  for  the  fortune  I 
brought  has  all  been  lost,  and  it  is  only  through 
this  estate  we  can  hope  to  pay  off  heavy  debts*  the 
sudden  loss  involves  us  in." 

"  Wearithorne  mine  ?" 

"  Is  it  possible  you  cannot  comprehend  ?  A  law- 
yer would  not  be  so  dull," — impatiently.  "Those 
papers  you  gave  Miles,  if  sifted,  prove  you  the 
daughter  of  Annot  Lethwaite,  who  must  inherit 
the  estate  before  Miles,  to  whom  it  was  willed  in 
default  of  any  other  heir." 

"  Go  on." 

I  saw  she  had  nerved  herself  to  tell  me  the  story, 
and  I  would  have  it  from  her  lips,  even  to  the 
uttermost. 

"  Annot  Lethwaite,"  she  went  on  at  my  bidding, 
"after  her  rash  marriage  with  one  Fraser, — of  whom 
nobody  knows  anything,  but  that  he  resigned  sud- 
denly from  the  army  somewhere  in  the  colonies,  to 
avoid  being  dismissed, — was  disowned  by  her  grand- 
father, who  yet  in  a  death-bed  repentance  left  the 


I02 


WEARITHORNE. 


whole  estate  to  her,  or  to  her  children  if  she  had 
any,  and  to  my  son  unless  they  appeared.  The  old 
'man  died  in  the  full  belief  that  he  had  no  other  heir 
than  Miles." 

I  could  easily  credit  that.  Marget  r.ad  often  told 
me  the  old  Master  of  Wearithorne  was  dead  some 
months  before  Kester  brought  me  to  this  neigh- 
borhood. But  I  did  not  think  of  this  now.  I  was 
dizzy  and  confused.  There  was  but  one  thought 
clear  in  this  chaos.  Kester, — what  was  he  to  me  ? 
I  put  the  question  shrinkingly,  I  so  feared  the 
reply. 

"  Nothing,"  Mrs.  Lethwaite  answered  me.  "  He 
knew  your  mother  as  a  tenant's  son  might  know 
the  young  lady  of  the  Hall.  And  it  was  his  sloop 
which  carried  them  away  to  Scotland.  And  when 
she  died,  she  trusted  him  to  bring  her  child  here, 
to  claim  the  estate  of  Wearithorne." 

"  And  why  did  he  not  claim  it  for  me  ?" 

She  was  silent.  It  was  not  until  I  had  repeated 
my  question  that  she  said,  very  low, — 

"  Can  you  not  understand  ?  Mallerstang, — Kes- 
ter Holme  coveted  it, — and  I It  was  the  price 

of  his  treachery  to  you." 

'*  Then  Kester  never  bought  it  ?  Did  your  son 
suspect  this,  Mrs.  Lethwaite  ?"  for  I  seemed  com- 
ing to  an  explanation  of  Kester's  unsparing  hatred. 

"  He  has  suspected,  not  me,  but  Kester.  He 
thinks  I  have  been  defrauded,  and  has  tried  to  get 
from  Kester  some  clearer  account  of  the  bargain 


\ 


WEARITHORNE. 


103 


than  mine.  Kester  has  kept  me  in  perpetual 
terror,"  she  ended,  with  a  weary  sigh,  "  ever  since 
that  first  unhappy  night  I  came  back  to  Weari- 
thorne." 

"  And  Kester,  then,  is  nothing  to  me  ?" 

"  Nothing." 

I  could  have  found  it  in  my  heart  just  then  to 
thank  her,  as  if  hers  were  the  boon  of  parting  me 
from  Kester.  But  there  was  a  sudden  revulsion  of 
feeling  when  she  leaned  forward  and  touched  me. 

"Why  have  you  told  me  this  now?"  I  arled, 
coldly. 

She  only  looked  up  at  me  piteously.  But  I  had 
no  pity  for  her.  I  had  been  aching  too  long  with  my 
own  grievous  hurt  to  feel  another's  just  now.  And 
she  knew  I  had  no  pity,  and  she  faltered, — 

"  It  is  because  Miles  suspects, — not  the  whole 
truth,  God  of  mercy,  not  the  whole! — but  that 
these  papers  give  a  clue  to  Annot  Lethwaite  and 
her  child.  He  does  not  know  she  was  your  mother, 
but  thinks  the  papers  must  have  fallen  into  Kester's 
hands,  not  through  your  mother,  but  in  some  other 
way,  from  the  House  here.  Miles  suspects ;  and 
Miles  is  not  one  to  shut  his  eyes  and  keep  the 
estate." 

"  And  if  his  eyes  were  opened  he  might  see  your 
guilt  as  well  as  his  loss.  And  still  I  do  not  see 
why  you  have  told  me  this.  I  am  sure  you  do  not 
expect  me  to  forget, — to  go  back  to  the  old  life, — 
the  old  wretchedness  ?" 


104 


WEARITHORNE. 


"If  you  were  his  wife, — if  you  withheld  the 
papers, — if  you  spared  to  ruin  his  mother " 

I  said  not  one  word  in  answer.  I  knew  she  was 
looking  to  me  for  it,  though  while  I  stood  still 
there  beside  her,  my  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the 
floor.     If  I  spared ! 

Presently  she  said,  in  quivering  tones,  "  Annot, 
if  Kester  is  not.  Miles  is  of  your  blood." 

"I  see  that.     Well?" 

"  And  for  his  sake  you  will  forgive  ?" 

I  drew  away  from  her,  and  began  to  pace  the 
floor  restlessly.  Forgive  ?  I  was  possessed  with 
a  wild  desire  to  turn  upon  some  one, — to  bring 
down  retribution  for  my  long  suffering. 

"  Forgive  ?  I'll  no  harm  your  son,  Mrs.  Leth- 
waite,"  I  said.  "  I'll  no  touch  one  acre  of  the  lands 
he  has  thought  his " 

"  Oh,  Annot,  how  can  I  ever  thank  you  ?" 

"  Stay,  and  hear  me  out,"  I  interrupted  her. 
"  I'll  no  touch  one  acre  of  the  lands  he  has  thought 
his.  But  for  you  and  Kester, — you  both  shall  feel 
how  I  have  suffered." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  she  questioned,  faintly. 

I  stopped  short  in  my  restless  pacing  of  the 
room,  and  came  and  stood  beside  her.  **  See,"  I 
said,  putting  out  my  hand  again  upon  her  own,  as 
white  as  the  fair  coverlet  on  which  it  lay, — "  is  this 
the  hand  of  a  Lethwaite  ?  An  hour  ago  I  said  it 
was  not  fit  to  mate  with  such  an  one  as  yours ;  is 
it  whiter,  smoother,  softer,  since  ?     And  is  it  this 


WEARITITORI^E. 


105 


only,  my  life  has  marred  for  me  ?  Do  you  think 
naught  but  my  hands  are  grown  hard  in  it?  Do 
you  think  a  word  of  yours  can  make  a  Lethwaite 
of  me  ?  It  is  dree  work  you  have  wrought, — work 
past  your  mending." 

Her  other  hand  stole  up,  and  covered  her  face 
from  me,  where  it  lay  upon  the  pillow.     Other 
than  that  stealthy  movement,  she  made  none. 
'  I  went  on,  more  vehemently  still : 

"A  very  dog  will  turn  and  rend  again  when 
he  is  trampled  down.  And  in  what  am  I  better? 
Not  in  the  rearing,  certainly.  An  Rockie,  up 
yonder  at  Mallerstang,  has  been  banned  and  cursed 
at,  flung  out  of  the  road,  beaten,  frightened,  till  he 
has  cowered  shivering  away  out  of  sight  and  hear- 
ing,— I  have  no  less.  An  he  had  a  caress,  or  a  kind 
word,  so  had  not  I.  An  he  had  a  full  meal  now 
and  then,  and  lay  down  in  satisfied  content,  it  was 
never  so  with  me.  I  was  cursed  and  hated, — 
starved  in  heart  and  brain.  I  could  rather  forgive 
Kester  even  every  blow  he  has  struck  me,  than 
forgive  you  the  blank  and  hopelessness  of  all  these 
years.  If  every  softer  feeling  has  been  crushed 
out  of  me,  to  you  and  Kester  do  I  owe  it  all.  Can 
you  look  for  aught  from  me,  than  that  I  should 
discharge  my  debt  'n  full  to  both  of  you?" 

I  stopped  short,  less  for  an  answer,  than  that 
breath  failed  me ;  less  that  I  had  poured  forth 
all  my  wrongs,  than  that  I  lacked  voice  to  tell 
them  in.    And  no  answer  came  to  me.    When  I 


io6 


WEARITHORNE. 


looked  down  on  my  enemy  before  me,  there  was 
something  in  the  listless  drooping  of  the  arm 
across  the  face,  in  the  white  parting  of  the  lips, 
that  startled  me.  I  sprang  to  the  bell  and  rang 
it  wildly.  It  seemed  an  hour's  weary  while  be- 
fore Marget  came  in,  and  found  me  kneeling  by 
the  couch,  trying  to  chafe  some  life  into  the  poor 
cold  hands. 

Not  that  there  was  any  pity  in  me,  even  then, 
for  the  guilty  woman  before  me.  Only  a  certain 
remorse  and  a  vague  terror  of  death.  It  did  not 
tend  to  soften  me  that  Marget  sent  me  straight- 
way from  the  room.  I  do  not  know  if  she  meant 
to  be  harsh ;  but  probably  she  blamed  me,  as  well 
she  might,  for  the  state  in  which  she  found  her 
mistress.  Certainly  she  ordered  me  out,  very 
shortly  and  authoritatively.  But  I  crept  back  to 
ask,  with  awed  and  bated  breath, — 

"Will  she  get  better,  Marget?     Is  it  a  swoon?" 

She  turned  upon  me  sharply: 

"What  iver  art  doing  here?  Hast  not  done 
mischief  enow  e'enow,  but  thou  mun  still  be  lin- 
gering? I'm  woe  for  ye,  lass, — an  ye  ha'  killed  the 
mistress  wi'  yer  pingling  clavers,  it's  over  late  to 
take  the  rue  That  wunna  lift  her  fro*  the  narrow 
bed  back  to  her  son.  Nay,  whisht! — away  wi' 
ye ! — go  thy  ways  back  to  Mallerstang.  There's 
trouble  enow  i'  the  house  the  day, — I  wunna  ha' 
ye  add  to  't." 

This   last  drop  of  bitterness   I   owed  yonder 


WEARITHORNE. 


107 


woman,  too, — that  my  one  friend  should  turn 
from  me  to  her. 

Marget  never  heeded  that  I  did  not  obey  her, 
further  than  to  move  away  to  the  dressing-room, 
just  within  which  I  crouched  down,  out  of  sight. 
Mally  was  there  to  help  her  now ;  and,  for  all  my 
anxiety,  I  was  not  quite  able  to  brave  Marget's 
anger.  Out  of  sight  I  crouched  down,  waiting, 
listening  to  footsteps  coming  and  going, — taking 
no  note  of  time,  in  my  one  long,  breathless  dread. 
For  the  footsteps  were  as  stealthy,  the  voices 
were  as  hushed,  as  in  the  chamber  of  death. 

Until  there  came  a  heavier  tread, — a  stir, — a 
suppressed  murmur. 

I  pushed  the  door  wider,  and  pressed  forward^ 
and  glanced  within. 

Everything  about  the  room  is  engraved  on 
my  memory  in  lines  of  pain  time  has  no  power 
to  blot  out.  The  flushed,  unresting  face  upon 
the  pillow, — Marget  bending  above,  —  Miles,  his 
bronzed  face  of  an  ashen  pallor,  his  lip  quivering 
suddenly,  as  the  sufferer's  high,  sharp  voice  rang 
out, — 

"Miles  too!  And  I  have  ruined  him, — the 
shame,  the  shame ! — he'll  never  bear " 

"Eh,  but  begone,  for  Heaven's  sake,  Maister 
Miles!"  I  heard  Marget  whisper:  "ye  see  the 
mistress  gets  mair  an'  m?j'r  r»v*-  o'  her  head  when 
she  sets  eyes  upon  y^.  Go;  an  there  be  any 
change,  I'se  come  for  ye,  poor  lad." 


io8 


WEARITHORNE. 


He  did  not  go ;  but  he  drew  apart,  into  the 
shadow  of  the  curtain,  in  the  recess,  out  of  sight 
of  Mrs.  Lethwaite.  I  was  so  near  him  I  might 
almost  have  touched  him  with  an  outstretched 
hand;  but  he  never  saw  me.  His  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  the  ground,  and  about  his  mouth  were  such 
lines  of  suffering  as  I  had  seen  nothing  of  before. 
For  I  was  not  used  to  the  sight  of  emotion,  be- 
yond that  of  anger  sometimes  in  old  Kester.  And 
what  was  this  I  had  done?  Had  my  harshness 
given  the  death-blow  to  this  woman?  Had  it 
brought  thi^  pain  to  Miles  Lethwaite's  face? 

"  Poor  lad !"  had  Marget  said, — ruined  in  sub- 
stance, spoiled  of  even  his  mother's  love  and  of 
his  faith  in  her.  Was  it  I  who  should  work  him 
this?     I? 

I  stole  out  from  my  place.  But,  softly  as  I  drew 
near,  Mrs.  Lethwaite's  eyes  unclosed  and  looked 
straight  up  to  mine,  with  such  unutterable  horror 
of  fear  in  them  that  I  was  prepared  for  the  cry 
panted  forth : 

"  Have  mercy ! — Miles, — if  he  should  know " 

"  She's  wandering,"  Marget  said. 

But  was  this  wandering  ?  She  never  moved  her 
eyes  from  mine ;  they  never  lost  that  agony  of 
dread.  But  there  was  recognition  of  me,  too, — or 
so  I  thought.  And,  acting  on  the  impulse  of  this 
thought,  I  stooped  suddenly,  and  with  my  lips  close 
to  her  ear,  I  whispered  what  I  had  come  back  to 
say : 


WEARITHORNE. 


109 


"  Miles  shall  not  know.  Only  trust  all  to  me. 
I  will — ay,  I  promise  to  destroy  every  one  of 
those  papers.  Miles  shall  never  know.  Will  not 
that  comfort  you  ?" 

Poor  soul !  That  comfort  found  its  ,way  even 
then,  in  her  disordered  brain.  She  repeated  the 
words  after  me,  in  a  wondering  sort  of  way,  under 
her  breath,  faintly,  and  so  low  that  only  I,  bending 
down  to  her,  could  hear : 

"  Miles  shall  not  know, — shall  never  know." 

Repeated  them  over  and  over  again.  And  they 
calmed  her,  and  she  lay  upon  my  arm,  still  look- 
ing up  into  my  eyes,  still  clinging  to  my  hand, 
until  her  gaze  grew  less  and  less  wild  and  strange. 
And  in  awhile  she  fell  into  a  troubled  sleep,  still 
resting  on  my  arm. 

Miles  quitted  the  room  then,  at  Marget's  second 
bidding.  As  he  passed  my  chair  he  lingered, — he 
even  spoke  my  name  in  a  low  voice. 

But  I  would  not  look  up.  A  passionate  indig- 
nation throbbed  within  me.  It  was  as  though  they 
were  all  leagued  against  me, — all, — Marget,  Mrs. 
Lethwaite,  Miles, — and  that  promise  of  mine  to 
Mrs.  I  '"♦^hwaite  was  as  a  fetter  binding  me  down 
hand  and  foot. 

And  so,  unanswered,  he  passed  out. 

At  first  not  even  pity  and  remorse  could  over- 
come the  repulsion  with  which  I  felt  her  resting  on 
me.  But  in  the  long  watch  that  followed,  during 
which  I  dared  not  move  for  fear  of  breaking  the 


10 


¥Wr 


""    fW 


IIO 


WEARITHORNE. 


light,  uncertain  slumber, — in  that  watch,  it  almost 
seemed  that  she  was  changed  to  me. 

If  one  would  lose  the  spirit  of  enmity,  let  one 
not  receive  a  kindness  at  a  foe's  hand,  but  do  one. 
Let  a  woman  watch  alone  in  the  stillness,  above  a 
sufferer's  couch,  and  see  what  wrath  can  survive 
that.  The  helpless  droop  of  the  poor  head  upon 
my  arm,  the  yearning  appeal  of  the  eyes  upraised 
to  mine, — truly,  when  my  enemy  fell  into  deep 
unbroken  sleep  at  last,  and  I  ventured  to  lay  her 
down  upon  her  pillow,  she  had  conquered.  She 
had  conquered, — she,  and  not  the  thought  of  Miles 
which  had  brought  me  back  to  her.  She, — pity 
for,  I  had  almost  said  sympathy  with,  her.  And  in 
the  days  that  came  after — the  days  she  filled  with 
cruel  wrong — I  never  more  was  able  quite  to  put 
away  the  sense  of  that  head  lying  helplessly 
against  my  breast,  of  those  wan  eyes  pleading  so 
to  mine.  For  we  may  forget  a  kindness  done  to 
us, — may  even  repay  it  with  yet  further  injury;  but 
a  kindness  we  have  done  will  throw  some  gleam 
of  sunshine  into  our  darkest  thoughts,  and  brighten 
them  with  something  of  forgiveness  for  the  one  who 
works  us  hurt. 

When  I  had  laid  her  softly  down  upon  the  pil- 
low, Marget  came  and  drew  me  away. 

"  Go  now,  bairn, — go,"  she  whispered  me ;  "  I 
wunna  ha'  her  see  thee  here  when  she  wakes.  It's 
over  late  now,  and  thou  mun  be  home." 

Passively  I  obeyed,  and  left  the  room.    There 


. 


WEARITHORNE. 


Ill 


was  no  good-night  exchanged  between  Marget  and 
me.  It  would  have  been  a  farewell  had  I  spoken 
it.  But  I  had  no  heart  to  sav  the  word.  Some- 
thing  had  come  between  us ;  the  old  familiar  tone 
was  gone,  and  there  was  a  soreness  on  my  part,  as 
if  she  had  not  been  true  to  me.  But,  indeed,  if 
truth  to  mc  involved  falsehood  to  a  Lethwaite,  I 
had  little  right  to  look  for  it. 

I  had  almost  forgotten  Miles  Lethwaite  the 
while.  But  I  must  find  him  now;  must  claim 
from  him  those  papers  I  had  promised  to  destroy. 
Should  I  find  him  in  the  library? 

Going  in,  again  for  one  instant  I  forget  Miles 
Lethwaite.  For,  as  I  enter,  the  sun's  rays,  slant- 
ing through  the  west  window,  fall  so  full  upon  a 
portrait  that  I  pause  to  look  at  it. 

I  find  more  in  that  pictured  face  now  than  I 
have  ever  been  able  to  read  there  before.  More 
than  pride,  than  coldness.  An  unscrupulous  will 
in  the  slight  yet  firm  curves  of  the  lips, — a  will 
which  had  not  hesitated  to  sacrifice  me  when  oc- 
casion served.  Would  it  ever  hesitate  again  ?  For 
it  is  not  hard  to  understand  that  her  agony  but 
now  was  not  remorse  for  the  wrong  to  me, — was 
rather  fear  of  the  retribution  to  follow  after  wrong. 
And  back  upon  me  come,  as  though  written  down 
in  the  soft  lines  of  that  fair  face,  the  wrongs  I  have 
suffered, — the  wretched  days  of  Mallerstang, — the 
nights  when  I  have  sobbed  myself  asleep  in  childish 
fears  and  dread  and  loneliness, — the  Hopes  and 


T 


112 


WEARITHORNE. 


longings  all  a  dreary  blank.  There  is  not  even 
any  comfort  in  the  memory  of  the  hours  here  at 
Wearithorne,  —  how  they  were  stolen  from  old 
Kester, — how  they  were  paid  for  in  blows  when 
I  returned  at  night,  or  in  words  wellnigh  as  hard 
to  bear,  when  something  in  my  face,  as  I  grew 
up  to  womanhood,  made  his  hand  fall  and  his 
voice  rise  instead.  And  Marget, — that  is  still  the 
bitterest  thought  of  all,  as  I  stand  there  and 
watch  my  enemy's  haughty  smile  fade  out  in  the 
dusk. 

And  then  I  see  there  is  a  candle  burning  in  the 
secretary's  dim  recess, — the  secretary  lid  is  down, 
and  his  chair  drawn  up  to  it.  A  packet  of  letters 
tied  with  a  green  riband  is  pushed  aside,  as  if  he 
had  laid  it  there ;  but  he  is  not  heeding  it.  His 
arms  are  folded  on  the  desk,  and  his  head  is  bowed 
down  upon  them. 

He  does  not  stir  until  the  rustle  of  my  dress 
comes  close  to  him.  And  then  he  raises  his  head 
and  looks  at  me. 

Whether  I  were  Marget,  or  Mally,  or  Nannette, 
he  would  never  have  heeded  at  that  moment.  I 
know  that  at  a  glance.  There  is  nothing  in  his 
haggard  eyes  but  the  speechless  agony  of  sus- 
pense; and  I  see  the  firm  lips  quiver  under  the 
brown  beard, — quiver,  without  one  audible  word. 
But  I  know  well  the  question  they  would  put. 
And  I  answer  it: 

"She  is  sleeping  quietly  and  peacefully.    The 


vV', 


'* 


T 


WEARITHORNE. 


"3 


fever  has  almost  passed  away.  She  will  awake 
restored.     You  need  not  fear." 

"Nannette!" 

The  shaking  voice  is  an  appeal  I  cannot  with- 
stand. I  go  swiftly  to  him, — laying  my  two  hands 
in  his  right  outstretched  to  me. 

He  draws  me  nearer,  with  that  strong  right 
hand,  and  with  those  earnest  eyes.  Until  I  kneel 
beside,  and  hide  my  face  from  him,  upon  the  desk 
where  his  was  bowed  but  now. 

His  large  palm  closes  over  my  two  trembling 
hands.  But  he  makes  no  other  sign.  Perhaps 
his  thought  is  not  half  with  me  even  now.     But 

that  I  am  something  to  him  at  such  a  moment 

Nay,  something?  By  that  firm  clasp  in  which  he 
holds  me  fast,  I  know 

He  interrupts  me,  saying,  still  in  that  shaken 
tone, — 

"  Glad  tidings  of  great  joy.  The  angels  always 
brought  them,  you  know.  And  my  little  Nan- 
nette  has  come  to  me  in  my  hour  of  great  dark- 
ness.    She  will  never  go  away  again?" 

I  lifted  my  head.  But  before  our  eyes  met,  I 
caught  the  proud,  still  glance  of  Mrs.  Lethwaite 
from  her  place  on  the  wall  opposite. 

In  my  excited  mood,  I  could  almost  fancy  her 
lip  curled  with  a  more  scornful,  sneering  smile. 
Was  she  to  stand  between  us? 

Perhaps  Miles  felt  me  tremble.  For  he  re- 
peated his  question,  forcing  me  to  look  at  him. 

lO* 


I 


114 


WEARITHORNE. 


But  I  hardly  saw  him.  I  saw,  instead,  the  dis- 
tance that  lay  between  us,  now  that  I  was  never  to 
be  Annot  of  Wearithorne  to  him,  but  just  Nan- 
nette  o'  Mallerstang.  What  if  he  shourd  remem- 
ber this  presently  ? — it  is  so  easy  to  stoop  lightly, 
on  the  impulse  of  a  moment,  to  a  thing  he  knows 
within  his  reach. 

"  She  will  never  go  away  again  ?" 

It  was  not  that  voice,  tender  and  true,  I  answered, 
but  the  fear  which  had  been  whispering  to  me.  For 
I  rose  up,  disengaging  myself,  and  replying,  in  de- 
fiance of  the  tears  still  on  my  lashes, — 

"  Ay,  but  she  must  go  away,  and  that  at  once. 
You  see,  I  have  forgotten  Kester," — I  could  not 
bring  my  lips  to  utter  "  Uncle  Kester"  just  then, — 
"  but  one  cannot  forget  always." 

He  looked  at  me,  disconcerted  and  puzzled.  I 
knew  I  had  perplexed  him, — that  he  could  not  tell 
whether  I  had  not  understood  at  all ;  or  whether  I 
had  come  to  him  at  his  appeal,  in  the  mere  sym- 
pathy of  a  thoughtless,  childlike  impulse.  That  was 
as  I  would  have  it.  If  he  really  cared,  let  him  speak 
again.     Not  to-night,  but  in  a  cooler,  calmer  time. 

As  I  half  turned  aside,  my  glance  fell  on  the 
packet.  I  put  my  hand  out  for  it,  saying,  with  ap- 
parent carelessness, — 

"  An  it's  your  will,  I  think  I'll  talie  my  letters 
back  with  me." 

But  he  intercepted  me. 

"  Leave  them  with  me,  Nannette,  a  short  while 


I 


WEARITHORNE. 


ns 


longer.  I  meant  to  take  them  with  me  to  Askrigg 
to-day,  to  mail  them  there  for  my  lawyer  in  Lon- 
don. But  on  second  thoughts,  and  at  my  mother's 
suggestion,  it  seemed  safer  to  write  to  him  first,  to 
insure  his  receiving  them.  You  must  let  me  hold 
them  till  I  get  his  opinion  as  to  what  is  best  to  do." 

*'  No,  no," — still  carelessly, — "  I've  changed  my 
mind.  I'll  not  play  at  bogle-about-the-bush  with 
such  a  slender  clue  as  that," 

"  But  it  is  no  slender  clue.  I  at  least  am  bound 
to  follow  it  up." 

"  Will  you  give  me  my  own  letters.  Colonel  Leth- 
waite  ?"  cried  I,  waxing  impatient.  "  If  I  list  to  take 
them,  who  is  to  say  me  nay  ?  I'll  make  shift  to 
rest  satisfied  as  I  am.  What  matter  if  my  mother 
were  a  lady  ?  That  will  never  make  me  any  other 
than  just  Nannette  o'  Mallerstang." 

"  It  will  not  make  you  any  other,"  he  said,  very 
gently.  "  If  it  could,  I  would  regret  the  day  that 
ever  placed  those  letters  in  my  keeping.  But  I 
will  tell  you  frankly,  Nannette,  I  do  not  think  they 
are  your  mother's.  I  more  than  suspect  the  clue 
leads  altogether  another  way." 

"  Another  way  ?"  I  faltered. 

"  Nannette," — almost  pleadingly, — "  you  do  not 
imagine  it  is  not  painful  to  me  to  gainsay  you  ?  It 
is  painful  every  way.  If  I  am  right  in  my  belief,  it 
may  be  I  shall  be  utterly  ruined.  And  if  I  am 
wrong, — if  these  papers  put  you  in  possession  of 
an  estate, — do  you  think  I  shall  feel  nothing,  see- 


Ii6 


WEARITHORNE. 


ing  you  removed  apart  from  me  ?  I  am  a  poor 
man  this  day :  do  you  think  I  am  generous  enough 
to  wish  you  a  rich  woman,  parted  from  me  by  wide 
lands  and  all  the  troops  of  lovers  they  will  bring  ?" 

I  had  nothing  to  answer  to  that.  He  went  on, 
not  waiting,  indeed,  for  any  answer : 

"  But  all  that  is  nothing  to  the  purpose.  What 
I  have  to  consider  is  this :  the  papers  certainly  do 
furnish  some  clue,  and  I  have  written  to  a  lawyer 
that  I  hold  them.  I  am  responsible  for  them,  see- 
ing of  your  own  free  will  you  gave  them  into  my 
keeping." 

"  But  I  who  was  free  to  give,  am  free  to  reclaim." 

The  packet  lay  before  me,  still  knotted  with  the 
riband,  but  bound  about  with  a  strip  of  paper  too. 
If  I  had  looked  closely  enough  to  see  what  that 
strip  was, — but  I  hardly  noticed  it  at  all,  in  looking 
at  him.  while  he  spoke : 

"  I  am  sorry  if  you  are  angry  with  me,  but  that 
will  not  alter  the  case.  A  heavier  responsibility 
rests  upon  me  in  those  papers  than  you  know. 
They  shall  be  returned  to  you ;  but  first,  that  re- 
sponsibility I  mean  to  discharge." 

Perhaps  it  was  a  strange  sort  of  smile  I  forced 
to  my  lips ;  but  I  did  force  one,  and  pushed  the 
papers  back  to  him,  and  said,  as  lightly  as  I  could, 
that  he  must  take  his  own  way, — I  could  see  it  was 
of  no  use  to  combat  his  will. 

"Of  no  use  at  all,"  he  said,  lightly  in  his  turn; 
then  earnestly, — 


WEARITHORNE. 


ii; 


"  Why  are  you  so  unkind  to-night  ?  You  n?ust 
know  how  your  distrust  pains  me." 

I  answered  nothing.     He  said  again : 

"  You  yourself  gave  me  the  papers  willingly 
enough.    Why  have  you  changed  ?" 

And  still  no  answer.  And  leaning  forward  on 
his  arm,  and  looking  in  my  face,  he  asked  me, — 

"  Because  you  have  not  forgiven  me  that  morn- 
ing by  the  syke?" 

I  turned  away  my  head : 

"  If  I  had  been  one  of  your  grand  ladies, — if  I 
had  stood  side  by  side  with  you,  instead  of  below, 
— you  would  never  have  done  that." 

" "  ATOuld,  Nannette." 

Ac  that  thrill  in  his  voice  I  flashed  up  one  glance 
at  him.  It  answered  me  more  clearly  than  his 
words  had.     He  added,  after  a  pause, — 

"  And  then,  too,  you  were  such  a  child  in  your 
tears.     Nannette,  if  you  knew " 

But  I  was  not  to  know ;  for  Mally's  entrance  cut 
him  short.  She  brought  more  lights,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  draw  the  curtains.  I  felt  her  curious 
gaze,  as  she  passed  close  by  me  where  I  stood  be- 
side the  secretary.  Miles  observed  it  too,  for  he 
frowned  over  the  letters,  and  pushed  his  chair  back. 

"That  will  do,  Mally,"  he  said,  impatiently. 
"  Take  your  candles  out  to  the  dining-room.  I 
shall  not  be  in  here  again  this  evening." 

"  Please,  sir,"  the  girl  asked,  "  then  shall  I  no 
bar  in  the  windows  for  the  night?"      <>       ' 


"m 


Ii8 


WEARITHORNE. 


"  Very  well,"  abruptly. 

"And  wunna  ye  be  fain  for  dinner  now?"  she 
persisted. 

He  turned  to  me,  asking,  in  a  low  voice,  if  I 
would  stay.  Then,  as  I  hurriedly  shook  my  head, 
he  said  to  Mally, — 

"  Just  put  off  dinner  for  an  hour  yet." 

She  lingered,  adjusting  first  one  piece  of  furni- 
ture, then  another.  I  saw  she  was  curious  to  dis- 
cover why  I  was  here  with  the  Master.  He  saw  it 
too ;  and  once  I  divined  from  his  sudden  flush  and 
gesture  that  he  was  about  to  order  her  out  angrily. 
But  he  checked  himself,  rearranging  letters  and 
papers,  and  thrusting  that  packet — I  saw  where  he 
thrust  it — in  the  lowest  of  the  left-hand  shelves. 

Suddenly  he  turned  to  me, — that  book  still  lay 
upon  the  secretary. 

"  My  horse's  hoof  struck  on  this,  down  by  Bur- 
tree-syke,  this  evening.  It  can  be  no  one's  but 
yours,  and  you  must  let  me  return  it  to  you." 

I  could  not  keep  down  the  burning  color  from 
mounting  to  my  very  temples,  but  I  did  summon 
hardihood  to  play  my  little  hypocritical  part  of 
surprise  and  regret  at  the  weather-beaten  appear- 
ance of  the  volume  he  put  into  my  hands.  "  It 
looks  indeed  as  if  it  had  been  in  the  very  *  drip  of 
summer  rains'  it  sings  of,"  said  I,  glancing  over 
a  page,  and  warily  avoiding  that  which  he  had 
marked. 

He  had  put  the  lid  up  again  before  he  gave  me 


wmm 


mm 


WEARTTHORNE. 


119 


the  book.  But  he  had  not  remembered  to  remove 
the  key.  As  I  saw  it  still  in  the  lock,  a  wild  idea 
flashed  across  my  mind, — an  idea  I  caught  at  heed- 
lessly, and  which  banished  every  other  thought. 
He  had  come  nearer  to  me  where  I  stood  beside 
the  light,  and  I  took  up  the  candle  and  moved 
away  to  a  sofa  between  the  windows.  There  I 
seated  myself,  supporting  the  candlestick  on  the 
back  of  the  sofa.  That  he  was  surprised  by  my 
sudden  defiance  of  appearances  I  could  see  by  his 
slight  glance  toward  Mally,  who  had  not  yet 
quitted  the  room.  But  as  she  closed  the  door 
behind  her,  he  came  and  took  his  seat  beside  me 
on  the  sofa. 

What  I  said  to  him  I  do  not  know,  and  I 
hardly  knew  then.  My  brain  was  giddy  with  the 
thought  that  had  driven  me  to  the  sofa.  I  was 
breathless,  impatient, — turning  over  the  leaves  at 
random, — making  random  comments  on  them, 
too,  and  reading  aloud,  here  a  line  and  there  a 
line,  after  an  aimless,  disconnected,  witless  fashion 
enough,  I  dare  say.  At  least,  I  know  my  wits 
were  wandering  very  far,  and  my  laugh  startled 
myself  with  its  unnatural  ring.  I  saw  Miles  look- 
ing at  me  in  a  mazed  way. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  mocking  so,  Nannette? 
But  mock  on,  if  you  will,  at  rhymed  and  written 
love,  so  you  believe  that  mine " 

The  start  with  which  his  words  brought  me 
back    from    my   own   thoughts   was   involuntary 


,1   LiWIII  I  III   WI^P 


n 


1 20 


WEARITHORNE. 


enough.     But  that  in  that  start   I   should  have, 
let  the  candle  fall  to  the  floor,  broken  and  ex- 
tinguished,— if  that  were   involuntary,  at  least  I 
made  no  movement  to  avoid  it.     And  Miles  and 
I  were  left  in  darkness. 

Of  course  the  accident  cut  short  his  sentence. 
He  had  started  forward  in  the  impulsive  attempt 
to  save  the  light,  as  it  shook  in  my  hold.  And  I 
drew  myself  away,  and  had  glided  across  the 
room,  as  he  exclaimed, — 

"Nannette,  where  are  you?  I  cannot  find 
you." 

I  knew  so  well  the  place  of  every  article  of 
furniture  about  that  room,  that  I  need  hardly 
have  knocked  over  his  chair  before  the  secretary, 
as  I  made  iome  incoherent  reply  about  a  tinder- 
box.  But  the  truth  wi.3,  the  falling  of  that  -hair 
came  in  most  opportunely  to  drown  a  slight  grat- 
ing noise  there  at  the  secretary. 

"A  tinder-box  ?  One  moment, — I  can  strike  a 
light,"  he  answered  me. 

I  had  the  lid  of  the  secretary  down.  But  it 
was  hurriedly  put  up  again,  the  key  and  the 
packet  hastily  concealed  in  my  dress,  and  I  stand- 
ing near  him,  when  he  stooped  for  the  candle.  _ 

But  I  had  done  my  work  right  well.  The 
broken  wick  just  sputtered,  and  the  spark  went 
out. 

"What  matter?"  I  said,  carelessly.  "I  have 
my  hat,  and  you  were  going  to  the  dining-room, 


WEARITirORNE, 


121 


— ^you'll  no  distract  Naunty  Marget  by  putting  off 
dinner?" 

"Ay,  but  I  will.  You  do  not  think  I  am  to  let 
you  go  back  to  Mallerstang  alone?" 

"^ut  I  am  going  up  to  Mrs.  Lethwaite  first."     ' 

"You  will  let  me  know,  then,  when  you  are 
ready."  And  he  followed  my  groping  way  out 
into  the  hall. 

But  I  had  not  taken  more  than  two  or  three 
steps  up  the  stairs  when  he  stopped  me : 

"  One  moment,  Nannette." 

He  had  come  forward  to  the  balustrade,  while  I 
paused  above  him.  No  light  burned  there,  either; 
but  it  was  less  dark  than  the  library,  though  dim 
enough.  But  Miles  Lethwaite's  face  was  very 
clear  to  me, — is  very  clear  to  me  now,  in  the 
dusky  hall,  with  the  full  moon  peering  in  at  the 
narrow  loop-hole  windows.  I  see  how  the  moon- 
beams fell  through  the  small,  round  panes,  in  tes- 
sellated figures,  on  the  stone  pavement,  crossed 
now  and  again  by  the  shadow  of  a  lime-bough 
without.  I  see  the  mirk  corners,  the  rude  arch  over- 
head, the  great  stone  stair,  with  its  quaintly-carven 
balustrade, — and  across  that  balustrade.  Miles  Leth- 
waite's earnest  face  turned  toward  me,  over  the 
mediaeval  grin  of  the  dragon  that  curls  its  ampli- 
tude of  scales  about  the  abutment  at  the  stair-foot. 
Miles  Lethwaite's  face 

"  I  want  you  to  think  over  what  I  have  said  to 
you  to-night,"  he  went  on.     "  I  shall  not  ask  you 

II 


r" 


/••' 


122 


WEARITHORNE. 


now  what  you  think  of  it.   I  only  beseech  you » 

Nannette,  I  believe,  with  all  my  soul,  you  are  truth- 
ful, ftank  as  a  mere  child.  I  have  been  perhaps 
overhasty  for  you.  I  cannot  look  for  you  to 
know  your  own  heart  certainly  so  soon.  But  you 
will  try  to  know  it?  You  will  be  honest  and 
open  with  me?  Nay,  then,  I  will  not  keep  you 
now." 

For  I  had  made  an  involuntary  movement  which 
he  took  for  impatience.  It  was  not  impatience, — 
it  was  pain, — indecision.  Honest  and  open  ?  And 
what  was  I  doing  ?     Must  I  not  tell  him  ? 

"  I  have  been  selfish,"  he  said,  his  whole  face 
changing  as  he  saw  me  leaning  there  before,  iiim, 
downcast  and  drooping.  "  I  forgot  all  the  watch- 
ing my  darling  has  had.  If  anything  could  have 
made  her  dearer,  it  must  have  been  this  watching 
by  my  mother's  side." 

"  You  love  your  mother  very  dearly  ?"  I  asked, 
breathlessly. 

"  As  one  loves  the  one  sure  good  of  one's  life." 

"  And  how  if  you  should  ever  find  her — not 
sure, — not  good " 

He  smiled,  for  all  reply.  But  when  with  some 
impatience  I  put  the  question  again,  he  answered 
me,  gravely, — 

"  You  have  told  me  you  cannot  remember  your 
mother,  Nannette,  so  you  do  not  understand." 

Ay,  but  I  did  understand.  I  dared  not  tell  him 
then.     Without  another  word,  gropingly,  wearily, 


WEARITHORNE. 


123 


I  turned  away.  For  his  sake,  as  for  his  mother's, 
my  lips  were  sealed,  my  promise  must  be  kept. 

Miles  let  me  go.  But  when  I  glanced  back  mid- 
way in  the  ascent,  I  saw  him  standing  still  where 
I  had  left  him.  It  pained  me,  I  could  not  have  said 
why,  to  see  how  he  watched. 

I  did  go  up  to  Mrs.  Lethwaite's  room ;  but  not 
to  see  her  lying  there  with  closed  eyes,  as  I  had 
left  her.  It  was  Mally  sleeping  at  her  post, — no 
slumberer  was  on  the  bed.  But  as  I  crept  noise- 
lessly to  the  door  of  the  dressing-room,  the  outer 
door  of  the  chamber  was  opened  as  noiselessly,  and 
there  was  the  faint  gleam  of  a  shaded  lamp,  and 
the  flitting  out  of  a  white  dressing-robe. 

As  I  stood  still  there  in  the  shadow,  she  passed 
the  outer  door  of  the  dressing-room.  And  as  she 
passed,  I  caught  from  the  hand  upraised  to  shade 
the  lamp  the  glitter  of  a  bunch  of  keys. 

Why  my  suspicions  should  have  been  so  quick'y 
roused  by  that,  I  do  not  know.  But  roused  they 
were ;  and  her  stealthy  way  of  peering  forward  into 
the  hall,  where  darkness  showed  the  housekeeper's 
preoccupation,  did  not  give  the  lie  to  them. 

And  so  I  followed,  cautious  as  herself, — drawing 
back  now  and  again  round  an  angle  or  into  a  dusky 
alcove  when  she  turned  with  anxious  glance  behind 
her.  For  I  would  know  whether  indeed  she  meant 
me  this  treachery. 

She  was  ghostly  as  any  wraith,  in  that  white 
trailing  robe  of  hers,  and  she  glided  on  as  stilly, 


124 


WEARITHORNE. 


one  transparent  hand  shading  the  night-lamp,  the 
other  catching  by  balustrade  and  wall,  until  she 
reached  the  library  and  went  in. 

She  had  not  altogether  closed  the  door  behind 
her,  and  I  pushed  it  wider,  standing  on  the  thresh- 
old. 

She  was  leaning  heavily  against  the  secretary, 
holding  the  lamp  high,  while  one  after  another  of 
a  bunch  of  keys  she  tried  to  fit  in  the  lock.  I 
knew  her  meaning  well ;  yet,  for  all,  I  could  but 
watch  her  admiringly.  The  slight  yet  stately 
figure  in  the  flowing  dress, — the  shapely  head, 
with  its  half-knotted,  half-fallen  mass  of  golden 
hair  (we  Lethwaites  have  many  of  us  those  goldi- 
locks borrowed  from  the  far-off  Annot,  the  Scots 
peasant-girl), — the  dark-blue  eyes  kindling  in  her 
eagerness,  and  the  proud  lips  scarlet  as  the  fever- 
flush  on  either  cheek.  My  enemy  was  fair  and 
soft  and  lovely.  Nature  does  not  always  set  down 
her  index  clearly  feature  by  feature,  but  blots  out 
with  a  soft  line  or  a  flush  of  color  the  ugly  list  of 
traits  which  we  would  write  upon  the  face. 

Mrs.  Lethwaite  heaved  an  impatient  sigh,  as  one 
by  one  she  let  the  keys  fall  back  upon  the  ring. 
Would  not  one  fit  ? 

One,  at  the  last.  It  turned  easily  enough  in  the 
lock,  and  she  let  the  lid  down. 

Ay,  she  had  stooped  straight  to  the  lowest  of 
the  left-hand  shelves.  There  were  but  two  or  three 
loose  papers  on  it  now.   She  unfolded  and  glanced 


WEARITHORNE. 


125 


tof 


the 


over  them  rapidly ;  then  she  let  her  hand  fall  to 
her  side,  in  still  dismay. 

I  waited  until  then,  and  then  I  left  my  place, — 
not  noiselessly,  for  I  had  no  wish  to  startle  her, — 
and  stood  before  her  as  she  turned. 

The  speechless  shame  in  her  down-falling  eyes 
would  of  itself  have  told  me  what  she  had  come 
there  to  seek. 

"  And  you  could  not  even  trust  me  ?"  I  said  to 
her,  bitterly.  "  You  are  not  satisfied  to  let  me  rob 
myself,  but  you  must  rob  me.  I  have  the  packet 
safe  here,  Mrs.  Lethwaite.  You  may  go  back  and 
rest, — I  shall  keep  my  word  to  you." 

She  did  not  think  to  answer  me, — ^what  could 
she  say  ?    She  only  moved  to  obey  me. 

But  so  shaken  was  she,  so  unnerved  by  all  the 
full  hours  had  brought  her,  that  in  taking  up  the 
lamp,  her  trembling  hand  let  it  fall.  There  was  a 
quick,  sharp  crash  of  broken  glass,  and  we  were 
left  in  darkness. 

The  crash  must  have  sounded  through  the  door 
she  had  left  ajar.  For  I  heard  another  open,  from 
the  dining-room,  I  felt  assured.  * 

"  He  is  coming,"  I  said,  hurriedly.  "  Go  out  to 
meet  him.  Don't  let  him  come  in, — say  some- 
thing to  him, — anything, — only  don't  let  him  find 
out  I  am  here.     All  will  be  well  then.     Quick !" 

While  I  spoke,  I  had  locked  the  secretary,  and 
thrust  the  bunch  of  keys  into  her  hand.  She  had 
just  time  to  reach  the  door  and  close  it  behind 

II* 


» 


126 


WEARITHORNE. 


her,  when  I  saw  a  flicker  of  light  creep  across  the 
threshold,  and  I  heard  Miles  say, — 
"You  here?    What  has  happened?" 
And  she  answered  him, — I  heard  her  laugh, — 
"  Very  little.  Miles.    Only  Mally  has  let  fall  the 
lamp  on  the  library  floor.    You  must  not  say  any- 
thing of  it  to  her,"  she  added,  in  a  prudent  after- 
thought; "she  is  distressed  enough    about  the 
carpet  already." 

"Hang  the  carpet!  Marget  told  me  the  girl 
was  sitting  with  you.  How  came  she  to  leave 
you  ?  Did  you  need  anything,  and  come  down  to 
find  her?  My  poor  little  thoughtless  mother,  you 
must  be  taken  better  care  of.  I'll  have  that  maid 
of  yours  back." 

"  Nay,  you  shall  fill  her  place.  Miles,  and  take 
me  to  my  room.     It  was  not  Mally's  fault,  dear. 
I  sent  her  for — a  scent-bottle  I  had  left  in  the 
library,  and  she  was  so  long,  I  thought  she  did 
not  quite  know  where  to  find  it." 
"  Was  not  Nannette  with  you  ?" 
"  Nannette  went  home  some  time  ago." 
"  Went  home  alone?" 

I  heard  them  mount  the  stairs  together,  and 
again  Mrs.  Lethwaite's  voice  at  her  chamber- 
door  : 

"  Do  not  come  in,  Miles.  Say  good-night  here." 
Ay,  do  not  come  in  and  find  poor  Mally  sleep- 
ing at  her  watch.     "  Say  good-night  here." 

I  do  not  wait  for  more.     I  steal  out,  and  across 


WEARITHORNE. 


127 


the  court,  noiselessly  as  any  ghost  might  do.  And 
then  I  hurry  on,  with  swift  foot,  yet  oppressed 
by  the  sense  of  falsehood.  How  lightly  it  had 
fallen  from  her  lips !  but  it  weighs  hard  upon  my 
conscience,  that  falsehood  I  have  listened  to  quietly 
enough,  spoken  for  me. 

And  now  I  have  reached  the  edge  of  Helbeck 
Lund,  where  the  beck  flows  about  the  moorland 
edge.  Beneath  my  foot  the  rocks  shelve  fast  to  a 
black  abysmal  pool,  from  the  neighborhood  of 
which  the  very  pines  themselves  straggle  back 
beyond  dark  crags  upon  the  farther  side.  It  is 
a  dismal  spot  to  stay  in,  but  time  wears  heavily 
until  I  have  discharged  my  promise. 

So  I  sink  down  on  a  ledge  that  overhangs  the 
water,  and  begin  to  loose  the  band  about  my  let- 
ters. My  letters ! — and  I  feel  as  guilty  as  though 
I  were  a  midnight  thief  who  had  stolen  in  and 
robbed  the  Master.  My  fingers  tremble  so  that  I 
can  hardly  loose  the  knot.  Something  fluttered 
beyond  my  reach  in  the  night-breeze.  Only  a 
crisp  strip  of  paper  binding  these  together.  The 
riband  would  have  gone  too,  but  I  grasp  at  it. 
For  it  would  be  a  clue.  I  must  take  surer  care  of 
the  letters.  And  one  by  one  I  tear  them  to  mere 
shreds,  and,  stooping,  place  the  handful  on  the 
hurrying  current  of  the  stream.  It  will  carry  them 
forever  far  beyond  the  ken  of  Miles  Lethwaite. 

My  task  is  done.  I  rise,  setting  my  face  home- 
ward now.    Slowly  and  wearily.     It  is  all  done. 


Tn^ 


rs 


128 


WEARITHORNE. 


And  though  I  know  not  yet  the  fulness  of  that  all, 
the  rugged  way  is  harder  than  I  have  ever  known 
it  in  the  days  gone  by.  Harder  and  drearier, — 
beset  with  strange  sounds  in  the  rustling  of  the 
wind,  and  the  startling  grating  of  some  bough  of 
shrubi  or  tree  against  the  walls  of  Helbeck  Lund. 
The  waters  darken  more  and  more,  yet  with  no 
distinct  overshadowing.  Down  from  the  blasted 
pine  above  me,  clatter  and  grate  two  last  linked 
cones,  until  the  ripple  closes  over  them  blackly.. 
Only  that  break  in  the  stillness, — or  if  a  gust  just 
stirs  the  branches  overhead,  it  so  soon  dies.  Only 
that, — but  the  beck  hurrying  on  with  its  strange 
moan,  as  of  some  wild,  fierce  creature  in  pain  and 
terror  of  escape. 

I  strive  to  summon  back  the  fleeting  sense  of 
triumph  with  which  I  stole  away  from  Weari- 
thorne  with  those  papers  in  my  possession.  I 
strive  to  rejoice  that  I  have  made  a  great  sacrifice 
for  Miles,  and  that  my  hand  has  turned  aside  a 
heavy  blow  from  him.  But  I  can  remember  only 
my  deceit.  And  when  I  steal  up  to  my  chamber, 
past  the  house -place  where  Kester  has  fallen 
asleep  over  the  fire, — when  I  lean  from  the  win- 
dow and  watch  the  turret-light  which  flickers  out 
above  the  limes  from  Wearithorne, — somehow  my 
ear  is  filled  with  the  hoarse  moaning  of  that  beck. 
What  is  there  in  it?  Yet  when  my  head  is  on  my 
pillow,  waking  thoughts  and  dreams  go  on  to  that 
dreary  monotone.  ■■ 


A" 


VI. 

It  faded  slowly,  the  crimson  flushes 
Wavering  long  on  the  sedges  there,— 

Adown  the  green  hollow,  amid  the  rushes 
The  burn  glints  on  through  the  alders  fair ; 

And  there  below  me  the  moorland  purples 

And  shines  and  glooms  to  the  broad  white  sea : 

But  now  as  then  though  the  moor-cock  hirples, 
His  note  no  more  rings  the  same  to  me. 

K ESTER  had  given  me  leave  to  take  Brownie 
and  ride  to  the  Hawes  market  the  Tuesday 
after  that  evening  at  Wearithorne.  He  was  rare 
and  indulgent  that  day,  for  we  were  yet  in  the 
midst  of  our  second  cheese-making.  Letty  was 
nearer  midsummer  than  May,  in  getting  to  it ;  but 
for  me,  I  was  wont  to  be  fain  for  the  cool  dairy,  in 
among  the  fragrant  white-brimmed  pans  ranged 
where  the  floor  was  hollowed  in  the  rock.  But 
that  day  I  had  had  enough  of  the  setting  of  the 
milk  and  the  pressing  in  the  cheese-vat, — enough 
of  the  salting  of  the  curd  and  putting  it  back  into 
the  press  for  the  night.  It  had  stormed  heavily 
yesterday,  and  the  air  was  so  fresh  and  sweet  with 
rain  and  sunshine  that  I  had  grown  restless  within- 
doors. Then,  too,  I  had  much  finished  knitting- 
work  upon  my  hands,  and  was  more  than  usually 

(129) 


/■I 


130 


WEARITIIORNE. 


desirous  of  changing  the  coarse  ribbed  textures  of 
gray  and  blue — the  jackets  and  bump-caps  of  my 
weary  winter's  industry — into  dainty  ribands  and 
a  bit  of  real  lace  for  the  bodice  of  my  Sunday 
gown.  Last  Sunday  I  could  not  find  it  in  my  heart 
to  go  to  the  kirk  at  all.  But  next  Sunday  I  would 
brave  everything,  and  venture  to  the  moorside 
chapel.  I  must  see  Miles, — meet  his  glance,  cold, 
or  angry,  or  contemptuous,  as  it  might  be.  I  had 
avoided  him  all  this  week,  even  stealing  away 
down  to  Moss-Edge  Hollow  one  evening  when  I 
spied  him  climbing  Helbeck  Lund,  only  to  meet 
Kester  at  the  Hag.  Miles  must  have  found  out 
the  loss  of  the  packet  ere  this ;  and  I  never 
imagined  he  could  fail  to  suspect  me.  I  shrank 
guiltily  from  meeting  him  ;  but  at  the  kirk  could 
be  no  danger  of  his  taxing  me;  and  I  could  judge 
at  a  glance  how  to  be  prepared  to  meet  him. 

I  had  been  to  Hawes, — had  quit  myself  of  my 
heavy  bundle,  and  received  in  return  a  package  for 
which  there  was  ample  room  in  my  apron  pocket. 
So  I  was  left  free  to  clamber  followed  on  a  more 
prudent  footing  by  my  faithful  Brownie,  along  the 
ways  which  bordered  on  the  Svw  de,  and  which  re- 
quired here  and  there,  besides  the  wary  foot,  hands 
quick  to  catch  at  rocky  wall  or  overhanging  shrub 
when  once  the  regular  flagged  path  was  deviated 
from.  To-day  I  could  not  go  quietly  along.  I  was 
restless  and  impatient ;  and  when  the  roar  of  Har- 
draw  Force   drew  nearer,  sounding   through   its 


WEARITHORNE. 


131 


echoing  walls,  I  hurried  thither,  knowing  the  fall 
of  water  would  be  grand  indeed,  after  the  swelling 
of  last  night's  storm. 

I  had  been  there  some  time,  sinking  down  upon 
a  rock,  and  hiding  my  face  in  my  hands,  after  the 
first  glance.  There  was  something  in  the  clamor 
of  the  waters  which  drowned  the  voice  of  care 
within  me.  I  sat  there,  listening  idly,  as  if  I  might 
listen  thus  forever,  and  so  forget. 

The  rushing  cataract  had  swept  down  rocks  and 
rent  trees  from  the  mountain-sides.  They  ground 
against  the  crags,  and  fell  with  separate  splash  into 
the  swirl  below.  Fell  now  and  again  like  a  foot- 
step drawing  near, — the  fall  of  some  sharp  tread 
upon  the  path  behind 

I  started  up. 

For  there  was  a  tread  upon  that  path.  The 
rent  walls  here  shut  me  in,  as  in  a  cave,  down 
into  which,  a  hundred  feet  below,  thundered  the 
force  in  one  free  leap.  Long  ledges  crept  behind 
the  curtaining  cataract,  and  then  swept  up  to  join 
the  old  Roman  road  that  still  keeps  its  foothold  on 
the  cliffs  above.  And  there  a  horseman  was  ap- 
proaching along  the  flagged  way,  which,  though 
over-smooth  and  slippery  after  a  rain,  was  often 
thus  used  rather  than  the  rugged  modern  road. 

He  threw  his  bridle  over  a  projecting  shrub  near 
where  I  had  tethered  Brownie,  and  came  forward 
to  meet  me.  To  meet  me,  who  cast  a  troubled 
glance  around,  and  then,  seeing  no  possible  escape, 


r  < 


132 


WEARITHORNE. 


resumed  my  seat  and  waited  with  bent  head  and 
quivering  breath. 

I  had  not  long  to  wait.  He  was  at  my  side,  was 
speaking  my  name  in  a  glad,  quick  tone  that  had 
no  displeasure  in  it. 

"  I  thought  I  should  never  find  you  again.  I 
have  tried  to  meet  you  everywhere, — even  ventured 
up  to  your  Hag,  with  such  a  reception  from  your 
courteous  uncle  that  I  resolved  net  to  go  again, 
lest  the  visit  work  harm  to  the  niece.  But  to-day 
I  was  thoroughly  out  of  p:itience,  and  broke  that 
resolve." 

"To-day?" 

"  An  hour  or  two  ago.  As  luck  would  havf:  it, 
I  again  met  Kester, — in  better  humor,  for  although 
he  scowled  on  hearing  I  had  a  message  from  my 
mother  to  you,  yet  he  growled  out  the  information 
that  you  were  gone  to  Hawes." 

"  A  message  from  your  mother  ?"  I  said,  quickly, 
looking  up  at  him  for  the  first  time. 

"  Well,  yes, — I  suppose  I  was  free  to  say  a  mes- 
sage, when  Kester  would  call  mc  to  account. 
She  was  asking  Marget  this  morning  if  you  had 
been  up  at  the  House.  I  am  sure  she  would 
wish  to  thank  you  for  your  kindness  to  her." 

"She'll  be  bravely  again?"  T  asked.  Not,  it 
must  be  confessed,  altogether  because  I  cared  to 
know,  but  because  the  question  seemed  a  natural 
way  of  filling  up  the  pause. 

"  My  poor  mother  has  been  sadly  shaken  by 


WEARITHORNE. 


133 


her  illness.  She  was  unnerved  last  night  and  this 
morning  by  a  household  trouble.  I  took  it  upon 
me  to  interfere  in  her  province,  and  dismiss  Mally 
rather  abruptly  yesterday,  and  my  mother  was  quite 
upset  by  it." 

"  Mally  ?  Oh.  I  am  sorry  for  that!"  I  cried.  '  I 
hardly  know  her  myself,  but  she's  half-sister  to 
our  Letty,  and  troth-plight  with  Davie  o'  Burtree- 
syke.  I  think  she  was  laying  by  out  of  her  wage 
for  her  wedding  bravery." 

**  Laying  by  on  rather  an  extensive  scale,"  he 
said,  gravely.  "  She  robbed  me  of  a  large  bank- 
note." 

"  Robbed !  Why,  Letty  knew  iiaught  of  it  this 
morning,  I'm  sure." 

"No;  for  the  girl  begged  for  silence  till  she 
could  get  away,  out  of  sight  of  all  who  knew  her. 
It  need  not  have  been  mentioned  at  all,  but  that 
Marget  knows,  and  the  gardener  was  brought  up 
about  the  loss." 

"  Pool  lass!"  I  said,  with  a  strange  sort  of  fellow- 
feeling.  True,  I  had  robbed  myself  in  robbing 
him.  "  Could  you  no  forgive  her  after  she  had 
confessed  ?" 

"She  would  not  confess;  but  still  persisted  she 
had  found  the  note  on  the  moor.  Whereas,  thert 
has  been  no  one  but  Marget  in  the  house,  and  her 
honesty  is  above  suspicion.  Besides  which,  I  have 
not  been  able  to  find  the  key  of  the  secretary, 
where  the  note  was,  since  the  evening  you  were  at 

12 


i: 


f 


/! 


.V 


134 


WEARITHORNE. 


Wearithorne,  Nannette.  I  had  the  note  in  my 
hand  then;  she  was  watching,  and  must  have 
looked  where  I  put  it.  My  mother  found  her  in 
the  room  again,  too,  that  same  night;  and  I  re- 
membered afterward  I  had  left  the  key  in  the  lock 
of  the  secretary.  Why  the  girl  was  mad  enough 
to  deny  the  theft,  I  can't  see." 

I  was  sorely  puzzled.  How  could  she  have 
stolen  that  note,  while  I  had  the  key  ?     But  then 

the   key  Mrs.  Lethwaite   had A  vision   of 

merry,  comely  Mally  rose  before  me,  and  I  said, 
regretfully, — 

"I   am   so   sorry!     Poor  Mally,  she  was   that 

pretty Do  you  think  Davie  could  forgive 

her?     Where,  think  you,  she'll  be  gone  ?" 

"  She  would  only  say  she  could  find  work  in 
some  factory;  she  has  worked  in  one  before,  she 
told  me.  But,  wherever  she  may  be,  she  is  in  no 
want.  I  took  care  of  that.  As  for  her,  her  only 
care  seemed  to  be  to  leavs  no  clue  behind  her." 

"  I  am  so  sorry !  But  could  you  none  have 
forgiven  her,  Colonel  Lethwaite?  You  had  your 
note  again  " 

"  Nannette,  how  shall  I  tell  you  why  I  could 
not  forgive  her  ?"  he  asked,  after  a  pause,  as  he 
threw  himself  on  the  rock 'at  my  feet,  leaning  on 
his  arm,  and  looking  up  at  me.  "  How  shall  I  tell 
you  ?  It  was  not  only  the  note.  The  note  was 
folded  round  that  packet  of  yours,  ready  to  be 
sent  to  London  with  it.     The  girl  must  have  been 


ii 


WEARITHORNE. 


135 


hurried,  and  just  seized  the  packet  as  it  stood, — 
kept  the  money,  and  destroyed  the  papers.  Per- 
haps that  is  why  she  won't  own  to  the  theft,  but 

still  persists Nannette,  for  God's  sake,  what 

is  it  ?     Are  you  ill  ?" 

For  I  reel  suddenly  in  my  seat,  and  all  grows 
black  before  me.  But  I  have  just  strength  to  lean 
against  the  wall,  back  from  his  outstretched  arm. 
I  am  dizzy  with  the  w^hirl  of  the  raging  torrent, — 
dazzled  with  the  iris-sparkle  of  the  sun-touched 
spray.     The   stooping   slirubs  and  jutting  rocks 

seem  tossing  about  there  in  the  eddy If  he  had 

not  caught  me  back 

"  Nannette,  I  had  not  thought  you  cared  so 
much.  How  shall  I  ever  forgive  myself  for  s»ich 
a  loss  ?" 

"  Mally,"  I  strove  to  say,—"  Mally,— I " 

"  My  little  tender-hearted  darling!" 

The  words  stab  me  so,  that  the  sudden  pang  gives 
rv'e:  strength  to  raise  myself  almost  fiercely.  He 
i  cc  not  understand  me, — how,  indeed,  should 
);  j  ?  —  but  interprets  the  gesture  his  own  way. 

*'  i'.-)^  must  not  be  angry  with  me,  Nannette, — 
the  girl  is  not  worth  that.  Why,  she  did  not 
show  as  much  emotion  at  her  owa  detection  and 
dismissal,  as  you  are  showing  now  for  her."' 

It  is  not  so  much  those  words  that  rouse  me 
to  self-control,  with  the  quick  sense  of  danger, — 
;iot  so  much  those  words,  as  that  I,  facing  the 
vvateriall,  see  a  shadow  steal  across  the  sunshine 


r  ' 


ill' 


136 


WEARITHORNE. 


dancing  on  the  stream.  A  shadow,  indistinct  and 
broken  by  the  falling  mist ;  but,  as  I  think,  the 
shadow  of  a  man.  And,  listening  intently,  I  hear, 
or  fancy  I  hear,  a  tread  which  mingles  with  the 
rushing  of  the  waters. 

There  is  nothing  strange  in  that.  I  am  not  the 
only  one  of  all  the  country-folk  who  would  go 
even  out  of  the  .  v  to  see  Hardraw  Force  after 
such  a  storm  as  ^  last  night.  And  I  know 
there  is  a  turn  in  the  rock  just  where  I  first  saw 
the  shadow, — a  turn  which  leads  behind  the  water- 
fall pouring  over  its  projecting  bed  above,  and 
creeps  under  by  a  long  ledge  that  sweeps  round 
to  this  side.  I  watch  a  moment ;  but  when  no  one 
comes  forth  along  that  ledge,  a  sense  of  insecurity 
steals  over  me.  Who  knows? — might  no  one 
creep  within  hearing  of  us  here  ?  That  which  I 
have  to  say  to  Miles  must  be  said  to  him  alone. 

And  so  I  rise,  and  murmur  something  of  time 
pressing.  He  rises  too,  and  follows  till  we  reach 
the  regular  path,  where  we  both  mount  our  horses. 

We  ride  on,  now  through  the  open  lanes,  now 
deep  in  the  heart  of  dells,  where  dogwood  boughs 
fling  white  rents  across  the  gloom  and  the  breath 
of  birch  and  brier-rose  steals  out  to  us.  Only  the 
steady  tramp  of  the  horses  is  heard  through  the 
rustling  of  the  wood,  the  summer  hum  of  insects, 
the  distant  outpouring  of  a  lark's  song.  And  now 
we  are  upon  the  meadow-lands  of  Stockdale,  pass- 
ing there  a  tumbrel-car  drawn  by  its  four  horses 


WEARITHORNE. 


r\ 


137 


in  a  line,  the  blue-smocked  driver  knitting  away 
too  busily  to  give  us  more  than  one  brief  curious 
glance  as  we  pass  by.  And  here  an  urchin  or 
two,  laiking  and  making  holiday  with  mimic  mill- 
wheels  in  a  tiny  stream. 

Brownie  will  not  go  at  any  steady  gait  to-day. 
I  throw  care  behind  me  in  a  mad  gallop  most  of 
the  way.  Miles  follows  my  lead,  after  a  vain  effort 
or  two  to  make  me  talk. 

I  cannot  talk.  I  am  striving  all  the  while  to 
come  to  a  determination.  Slu  '1  I  confess  all  to 
Miles  now  and  here? — or  am  I  not  rather  bound 
to  see  Mrs.  Lethwaite, — to  let  her  be  the  first  to 
confess,  if  so  she  choose  ?  Striving,  not  the  more 
successfully  that,  whenever  I  glance  toward  him,  I 
meet  his  eyes,  keeping  back  nothing,  but  telling 
their  full  tale.  For  Miles  did  not  know  me.  Even 
my  shrinking  from  him  he  interpreted  after  his 
own  fashion,  my  unreasonable  tenderness  of  sym- 
pathy with  Mally — as  he  judged  it — making  me 
yet  truer  woman  in  his  sight.  And  how  can  I 
bear  to  undeceive  him  ? 

I  do  not  know  what  impelled  me  to  glance  back 
at  that  moment.  Mere  instinct  ?  For,  as  I  did  so,  I 
saw  a  man  in  the  distance,  crossing  the  Hawes  road 
into  the  thicket.  It  was  but  an  instant;  yet  it  was 
enough  for  me  to  recognize  Kester.  I  could  under- 
stand now  why  he  told  Miles  which  way  I  had  gone. 
He  himself  had  followed  to  spy  upon  us.  I  could 
at  least  be  thankful  he  had  discovered  nothing. 

12* 


r  I 


138 


WEARITHORNE. 


Miles  stopped  my  wild  speed  after  that.     He 
caught  my  bridle,  and  said  to  me, — 
'     "  Nannette,  you  are  not  going  to  gallop  after 
this  mad  fashion  till  we  are  at  Mallerstang?   I  have 
something  to  say  to  you." 

"  I  can  hear  you  very  well.  Brownie  is  restive : 
let  the  bridle  loose,  pray,  Colonel  Lethwaite." 

He  only  drew  it  tighter;  and  while  Brownie, 
glad  enough  to  stop,  fell  into  a  walk,  Miles  said, 
with  clouded  brow, — 

"  Is  the  pain  you  keep  me  in  nothing  to  you  ? 
You,  so  tender-hearted  for  others,  why  are  you  so 
hard  to  me?  Nannette,  you  shall  speak  to  me! 
You  cannot  go  back  to  Mallerstang  and  leave 
me  so." 

"  I'd  none  go  back  to  Mallerstang  now,  an  I  might 
go  on  first  to  Wearitborne.  I  have  an  errand  there, 
to  Mrs.  Lethwaite." 

"  She  knows  nothing  further  of  the  girl,"  he  said, 
answering,  as  he  believed,  the  meaning  of  my 
hesitating  speech.  "  I  shall  be  more  than  glad, 
however,  to  have  you  come  to  Wearithorne. 
But,  Nannette,  I  have  asked  you  a  question, — I 
suppose  you  will  let  me  have  my  answer  at  the 
House  ?" 

I  made  no  reply  other  than  an  inarticulate  mur- 
mur, which  perhaps  he  took  for  a  yes.  But  I  dashed 
off  at  once,  and  we  rode  full  speed  together,  all  the 
way  to  Wearithorne. 

"An   it's  about  Mally,"   Marget  said,  when  I 


WEARITHORNE. 


139 


told  her  I  must  speak  with  the  mistress,  "  Letty 
mid  ha'  done  better,  an  'twere  her  sent  ye.  What 
for  dunna  she  come  hersel'  ?  But  dunna  bide  a 
minute,  lass, — the  mistress  be  no  that  well,  and 
mun  be  quiet." 

Mrs.  Lethwaite  was  lying  on  the  sofa  in  her 
dressing-room.  She  did  indeed  look  no  that  well, 
but  she  sat  up  when  I  came,  and  put  her  hand  out 
to  me,  as  quietly  as  if  she  had  been  expecting  me. 

As  indeed  her  first  words  showed  she  had.  I 
did  not  feel  free  to  take  the  chair  she  offered,  and 
stood  leaning  against  the  back,  when  she  began : 

"  I  knew  you  would  be  here.  Is  it  not  wretched, 
— this  that  has  grown  out  of  your  coming  that 
dreadful  evening  ?  Miles  would  not  listen  to  me ; 
I  tried  to  save  the  poor  girl  all  I  could." 

"  All  you  could,  Mrs.  Ldthwaite  ?  Did  you  tell 
your  son  everything  ?" 

"  Everything  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?  When 
you  charged  me  not  to  let  him  know  you  were 
here!" 

"  Everything,  Mrs.  Lethwaite.  Not  only  that  I 
was  here,  but  why  I  was  here,  and  why  you  went 
down  to  the  library." 

She  sank  back  on  the  sofa,  gazing  at  me  incredu- 
lously. 

"  You  know,  Annot,"  she  said,  slowly,  "  I  could 
not  tell  him  that.  Where  were  the  use  of  your 
promise  to  me  then  ?  If  he  understood  you  and 
I  were  both  in  the  library  that  night  to  take  those 


/■ » 


' 


I40 


WEARITHORNE. 


letters,  he  would  understand  the  rest  fast  enough, 
and  what  interest  I  at  least  had  in  them." 

"He  would,  —  and  he  ought,  Mrs.  Lethwaite. 
Mally  shall  not  be  ruined  for  us." 

"  What  would  you  do,  then  ?  Break  your  word 
to  me,  and  lay  bare  all  my  guilt  to  Miles  ?" 

The  voice  was  so  wild  with  terror — she  turned 
so  white  and  red  all  in  a  breath — that  I  was  fright- 
ened.    I  answered  her,  quickly, — 

"  No, — my  word  to  you  is  given,  and  the  papers 
are  destroyed.  It's  no  for  me  to  tell  him,  but  for"^ 
you." 

She  laughed, — a  short,  hard  laugh : 

"  For  me  ?    And  do  you  think  I  have  kept  the 

secret  all  these  years, — have  risked  so  much,  suf- 

.  fered  so  much, — to  give  it  up  to-day  when  the 

proofs  against  me  exist  no  longer?     You    must 

believe  me  weak  indeed." 

"  Strong,  to  bear  the  burden  yourself.  But  weak 
or  strong,  I  tell  you,  Mrs.  Lethwaite,  Mally  shall 
not  bear  it." 

"  The  papers  are  destroyed."  I  think  those  words 
had  brought  back  her  courage.  For  a  flush  came 
into  her  white  cheeks,  and  she  said,  scornfully, — 

"  Are  you  prepared  to  take  it  from  her,  then  ? 
For  I  am  not.  But  if  you  will,  you  may  tell  my 
son  how  you  tampered  with  the  papers  in  his  pri- 
vate secretary.  I  shall  have  nothing  to  do  with  it 
/  am  not  weary  of  Miles's  love." 

I  brushed  past  her,  without  another  word.     But 


WEARITHORNE. 


HI 


J 


before  I  could  reach  the  door,  she  was  there  first, 
— was  leaning  against  it  trembling,  stretching  out 
imploring  hands  to  me  : 

"  Annot,  what  would  you  do  ?" 

"  Let  me  pass,  Mrs.  Lethwaite." 

"  I  dare  not.  I  will  not  let  you  ruin  me, — your- 
self.    I  will  not  let  you  ruin  Miles." 

"  I  will  not  ruin  him.  Everything  shall  be  his. 
But  I  will  clear  Mally.  I  will  show  him  what  you 
are, — into  what  you  would  plunge  me,"  I  answered 
her,  in  the  white  heat  of  quiet  wrath. 

"  And  will  that  serve  you  in  good  stead, — to  have 
no  mercy  on  his  mother  ?  I  tell  you,  Annot,  it  is 
not  loss  of  the  estate,  it  is  his  mother's  shame 
would  ruin  Miles." 

There  was  a  thrill  of  triumph  in  her  voice  that 
made  me  long  to  thrust  her  from  my  path,  and  to 
go  down  and  tell  Miles  all.  But  in  spite  of  myself  I 
felt  she  spoke  truth.  Ruin  Miles  ?  Mally's  ruin 
was  but  a  dim  shadow,  seen  against  the  midnight 
j^loom  I  might  bring  down  on  him. 

If  Mrs.  Lethwaite  saw  her  advantage,  she  was 
wary  in  not  showing  me  she  did.  She  clung  lo  my 
hands,  to  my  dress,  she  besought  me  to  spaie  her 
only  for  Miles's  sake.  And  I  remembered  no  more 
any  suffering  save  that  which  would  be  his. 

"  Would  be."  "  Must  be"  had  changed  to  that 
already.  And  now,  when  I  caught  a  footstep  on  the 
stair,  I  stood  no  longer  hesitating. 

*'  Let  me  go,  Mrs.  Lethwaite :  he  is  coming.    I 


142 


WEARITHORNE. 


dare  not  face  him  now.  Nay,  let  me  go, — have  I 
not  given  you  my  word  I  won't  betray  you  ?". 

She  stood  aside.  I  heard  that  step  again.  I 
had  the  door  wide  in  an  instant,  crossed  the 
corridor,  and  fled  down  the  other  stairway  at  the 
opposite  end  of  the  hall.  Only  to  brush  against 
Miles  Lethwaite  at  the  foot. 

"  I  thought  you  were  coming  up  the  other  way," 
I  cried,  taken  unawares. 

"  And  meant  to  avoid  me  by  this  ?  That  was 
Marget  who  passed  me  here.  Nannette,  is  it  so  ? 
— do  you  really  wish  to  avoid  me  ? — do  you  object 
to  my  going  with  you  back  toward  Mallerstang  ?" 

I  looked  at  him, — and  I  heard  Marget's  heavy 
tread  again.  Here,  where  we  had  parted  on  the 
stair  that  night,  he  was  standing  before  me ;  I  saw 
he  did  not  mean  to  move  until  he  had  more  than 
just  that  one  answer.  And  I  suspected  Marget 
was  coming  down  to  interrupt ;  I  knew  she  would 
not  think  it  canny  in  me  to  be  lingering  here  with 
the  Master.     I'd  not  face  her. 

So,  in  a  moment  more,  we  were  walking  together 
under  the  limes.  Miles  insuring  against  such  a  wild 
gallop  as  our  ride  hither  by  passing  his  own  horse 
without  so  much  as  a  glance,  as  we  crossed  the 
court.  I  did  not  let  him  mount  me  upon  Brownie, 
as  he  proposed,  meaning  to  walk  beside  me ;  but 
we  both  went  on,  on  foot. 

I  never  now  tread  the  path  I  trode  that  day  with 
Miles ;  but  I  know  it  as  if  I  had  crossed  it  yester- 


WEARITHORNE. 


143 


day.  I  think  the  lonely  seas  must  be  like  our 
moors ;  taking  their  tone  from  the  skies,  and  gloomy 
or  bright  as  those  are  frowning  or  smiling.  A 
drear,  heart-breaking,  hopeless  stretch  I  have  seen 
that  same  heath.  But  certainly,  that  gloaming, 
over  the  undulating  sweep,  broken  here  and  there 
by  a  stooping  hollow  with  the  peat-tinged  quiet 
waters  of  a  gill,  there  was  a  cloudless  sky.  A  sky 
so  cloudless  and  so  soft  in  its  gray-blue  that  it 
hardly  caught  a  glance,  and  seemed  all  emptied  of 
its  majesty.  It  paled  yet  more  where  the  moors 
rounded  like  a  globe  to  the  horizon,  and  the  sun- 
rays  and  the  yellow  gorse  in-wove  with  purpling 
ling.  I  remember  all  so  well, — the  faint  sweet 
marish  odors  as  we  crushed  the  grasses  under-foot, 
— the  hum  of  insects  in  those  grasses, — the  whirr 
of  wings  and  twitter  of  the  nestward  flight  of  birds, 
— the  hoarser  breeze-borne  din  of  rooks  in  the 
oaks  behind  Wearithorne.  These  sounds  filled  up 
our  pauses  as  we  walked ;  the  moorland  was  not 
drear  that  hour. 

I  looked  back  then,  and  brighter  than  elsewhere 
the  sinking  sun  was  turning  all  those  honied  limes 
of  Wearithorne  to  gold.  And  brighter  than  else- 
where, as  I  glance  back  to-day,  the  glow  of  mem- 
ory falls  upon  that  hour  when  the  last  red  troubled 
flush  of  sunset  sank  away  into  the  dull  gloom  of 
after-life.  Looking  back!  There  is  but  a  mirk 
comfort  in  it,  after  all.  There  are  always  more  or 
less  of  tear-mists  hovering  between  us  and  the  far 


T^ 


(' 


144 


WEARJTHORNE, 


horizon  of  tlic  past,  even  when  that  past  has  been, 
as  mine  before  that  day,  an  even  surface,  unmarked 
by  those  bold,  sunny  heights  and  sinking,  darksome 
clefts  where  one  most  naturally  expects  gathering 
mists. 

We  went  on  at  no  laggard  pace,  however.  If  I 
had  dared,  I  would  have  sprung  on  Brownie,  would 
have  snatched  the  bridle  from  Miles's  hold,  and 
never  drawn  rein  till  I  was  safe  under  the  shadow 
of  Mallerstang.  But  I  do  not  dare.  I  must  linger, 
and  hear  what  Miles  has  to  say  to  me.  And  he  is 
not  long  in  saying  it : 

"  I  told  you  I  would  wait  for  an  answer  to  my 
question.  Do  you  mean  not  to  give  it  ?  Is  it  to 
be  always  so  between  us  ?" 

"  Always  so  ?" 

"  You  know  I  love  you,  Nannette, — is  that  why 
you  are  so  cold  to  me  ?" 

"  It  is  you  are  cold, — hard  as  the  nether  mill- 
stone,— it's  fearsome !"  I  cried,  vehemently.  "  Have 
you  ne'er  done  wrong,  that  you  can  no  forgive?" 

"  Nannette,"  with  passing  tenderness,  "  have  I 
frightened  you  with  Mally's  story  ?  Do  you  think 
I  shall  be  cold — hard — ever  to  you  ?" 

"  An  'twere  I  had  done  what  you  say  Mally  has, 
and  you  were  Davie,  troth-plight  with  her," — I 
say  it  faintly,  stammeringly, — "you — could  you 
forgive  ?" 

"  But  you  are  not  Mally.  Why  make  such  an 
uncomfortable  pretense  ?" 


WEARITHORNE. 


145 


I  look  up  in  his  face  despairingly.  Would  he 
never  suspect  anything,  unless  I  put  it  in  cruel 
words  ?     I  could  not  put  it  in  words. 

"  What  if  you  ever  found  I  had  deceived  you  ?" 
I  asked. 

"  I  shall  not  be  afraid  of  your  deceiving  me." 

"  But  if  I  should  ?" 

He  was  silent.     I  persisted  in  my  question. 

"  Why  do  you  say  such  things  ?"  he  asked  me, 
lightly. 

"  What  do  you  think, — will  Davie  aye  forgive 
yon  lass  ?" 

"  Not  if  your  forgiveness  means  love,  Nannette." 

"Eh, just  hearken  to  that!  And  you  are  not 
hard, — not  you  !" 

"  Not  hard,"  he  answered  me.  "  If  this  had  been 
a  swift  temptation  which  overcame  the  girl, — but 
it  was  not  that.  She  had  time  enough  to  think, 
time  enough  to  remember." 

And  I, — had  I  not  time  enough  to  think,  time 
enough  to  remember,  how  my  guilty  silence  was 
condemning  the  innocent  ?    And  I  went  on : 

"  If — poor  heart,  if  she  deceived  him  for  his  own 
sake, — because  she'd  have  helped  him  ?" 

"  Worse  and  worse." 

"  It  may  be  worse  and  worse, — it  may  be  des- 
perately wicked,"  I  cried,  with  a  sob  in  my  voice, 
which  I  wonder  now  did  not  bring  ,my  pleading 
home  to  me,  even  to  his  unsuspecting  ear, — "  it 
may  be  worse  and  worse,  but  it  was  done  for  love 

13 


ri  ' 


/, 


I 


146 


WEARITHORNE. 


of  him.  And  what  is  love,  if  it  cannot  atone  for 
all  things?" 

He  looked  at  me  gravely.    He  said, — 

"  If  a  man  still  loved  a  woman  through  his  scorn 
of  her, — I  do  not  say  it  is  impossible, — the  love 
must  be  a  mere  ignoble  thing  of  passion  and  of 
habit.   Not  the  love,  Nannette,  which  I  bring  you." 

I  had  no  answer  to  the  sudden  pleading  of  his 
voice,  and  the  hand  outstretched  to  me  fell  at  his 
side  without  response  from  mine.  How  could  I 
answer  him  ?  Even  the  half-confession  which  was 
on  my  vacillating  lips  but  now,  must  implicate  Mrs. 
Lethwaite, — must  harm  Miles, — must — ay,  that  was 
it — must  injure  me  with  him.  I  set  them  fast  to- 
gether. Hay,  what  care  had  I  for  Mally  ?  She  had 
borne  her  trouble  not  so  heavily.  Miles  said;  while 
I 

"  Nannette,  you  do  not  love  me,  after  all  ?' 

The  words  were  not  spoken  until  after  a  long 
pause.  So  long  a  pause,  that  during  it  the  way 
had  gone  by  unobserved,  and  when  his  voice 
startled  me  into  looking  up,  I  saw  we  had  reached 
the  b'jck  under  the  shadow  of  Moss-Edge,  and  I 
was  almost  home. 

Not  love  him,  after  all? 

"  Do  you  then  care  so  much  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Care  so  much  ?"  he  repeated,  with  subdued 
passion ;  "  I  wish  to  Heaven  I  did  not  care ! — I  doubt 
yc.  are  worth  my  caring;  but  if  all  this  is  mere 
vain  coquetry,  at  leabt  tell  me  so  now." 


WEARITHORNR. 


H7 


»> 


I  had  iiot  meant  to  tell  him, — it  must  have  been 
something  in  m^  suddenly  uplifted  face  that  gave 
his  doubt  the  lie.     But  I  drew  back  from  him. 

"  Stay, — if— if  I  do  love  you,  there  is  something 
parts  us  as  yet, — for  a  time."  , 

"  Nothing  shall  part  us." 

Nothing  ?  But  what  if  afterward  he  ever  learned  ? 
I  did  fear  Miles  Lethwaite, — the  darkness  in  me 
feared  the  light.  It  seemed  no  easy  thing  now, 
here  with  him,  as  it  had  seemed  while  up  there 
Mrs.  Lethwaite's  hands  clasped  mine,  to  hold  my 
peace  for  her  sake  or  for  his, — to  suffer  Mally's 
ruin  and  yet  put  my  hand  in  this  man's  as  a  wife 
should.  My  right  hand,  with  a  lie  in  it.  Would 
he  ever  forgive  me  if  he  found  it  out  ?  If  I  dared 
tell  him  now, — if  Mally  could  be  righted 

And  Miles  ruined? 

Ay,  ruined  every  way. 

For  what  had  Miles  said  ?  How  his  tone,  his 
words,  came  back  to  me ; 

"  You  have  told  me  you  cannot  remember  your 
mother.     So  you  do  not  understand." 

But  by  the  remembrance  of  that  hour  when, 
crouching  by  the  fire-light  in  the  hou^e-place,  I 
first  read  my  mother's  journal,  I  did  understand  the 
blow  the  truth  confessed  must  deal  him.  And  for 
me,  who  had  schemed  to  deceive  him,  to  act  out 
my  little  part  there  in  the  library,  to  creep  back 

like  a  thief  in  the  night  after  that  packet For 

him  ?    "  Worse  and  worse,"  he  had  said  to  that. 


>f 


f  t 


148 


WEARITHORNE. 


And  if  he  could  not  trust  me  after  that,  must  he 
not  yield  Wearithorne  to  me  the  heiress,  and  go 
forth  from  it  ruined  ?  Ruined  every  way,  perhaps, 
if  I  now  told  him  all.  And  instead,  I  clutched  at  a 
vague  hope.  I  would  put  him  off  now,  merely  for 
the  present ;  and  who  knows  what  time  might  do 
for  me  ?  It  was  a  weak  temporizing, — the  vaguest 
of  all  hopes,  that  by  waiting  I  might  hear  good 
news  of  Mally,  and  so  keep  my  secret  with  a  quiet 
heart.  I  was  as  one  who  tries  to  stay  a  drifting 
boat  just  where  diverging  currents  sweep.  I  might 
have  rushed  on  confession,  as  over  rapids,  which 
must  ruin  me  or  Miles;  or  I  might  have  turned 
determinedly,  and  floated  down  the  smoother-seem- 
ing tide  of  silence,  a?  Miles's  wife.  But  to  wait 
between  the  two, — to  yield  to  neither  current, — I 
was  mad  enough  to  dream  it  possible. 

And  so,  when  he  said  again, — 

"  Nothing  shall  part  us " 

**  Can  you  no  have  patience  with  me  ?"  I  cried. 
"  Can  you  no  wait  a  little,  little  while  ?  I  can  tell 
you  nothing  now,  but  that  there  is  something  stands 
between  us  yet." 

"  It  is  Kester  ?  Are  you  going  to  suffer  him  to 
part  us  ?" 

I  answered  him  with  a  pitiful  evasion : 

"  I'm  none  going  to  suffer  any  one  to  part  us. 
An  you'd  but  wait, — but  trust " 

My  voice  shook  there.  I,  to  require  of  him  to 
trust  me,  when  I  meant  that  he  should  wait  until 


WEARITHORNE, 


I  could  deceive  him  with  a  stiller  conscience !  I 
think  my  shame  must  have  glowed  scarlet  in  my 
jheeks,  when  he  replied, — 

"  As  to  trusting  you,  that  is  as  easy  as  to  trust 
my  own  good  faith.  But  this  is  a  hard  thing  you 
ask  of  me,  Nannette, — this  waiting.  How  long  is 
it  to  last?" 

"  I  can  tell  you  nothing  yet,"  I  cried  out,  des- 
perately, "  but  that  we  are  parted  once  for  all,  unless 
you  can  have  patience  with  me." 

"  Nannette," — catching  my  two  hands  eagerly,— 
"why  should  ;*:here  be  a  mystery  between  us? 
Why  should  you  not  be  frank  with  me,  and  let  me 
help  you  ?" 

I  shook  my  head,  looking  up  at  him  speech- 
lessly in  my  terror.  Would  he  wring  the  truth 
from  me,  whether  I  would  or  no  ? 

"  My  darling  has  dwelt  morbid^  upon  some 
trifle,  till  it  has  grown  out  of  all  p  >portion  to 
the  truth,"  he  said,  tenderly.  "I  take  it  ipon 
me  without  hearing  it,  since  you  so  shrink  frc  m 
speaking." 

"  A  trifle  ?  Look  at  me.  Miles, — ^tell  me  what 
trifle  I  would  suffer  to  wrench  me  apart  from 
you,  when  it  is  like  wrenching  apart  body  and 
soul!" 

He  must  have  seen  in  my  face  that  I  spoke 
truth ;  for  he  urged  me  no  more  after  that.  He 
must  have  seen  it  in  my  face,  he  stood  so  long 

time  looking  down  into  it  silently. 

13* 


It, 


f  I 


150 


WEARITHORNE. 


"  Nannette,  it  is  Kester, — it  is  your  fear  of  him, 
stronger  than  your  love  of  me.  Why  should  you 
stay  in  his  power  ?    Only  come  to  me " 

Again  I  shook  my  head  for  all  reply. 

And  then  he  said,  with  slow  effort, — 

"What  would  yoi^  have  me  do, then  ?" 

A  great  dread  rushed  upon  me.  It  was  cruel  in 
its  selfishness,  perhaps, — but  for  my  life  I  could 
not  have  kept  back  its  utterance : 

"  Only  do  not  forget  me." 

He  smiled  a  weary,  haggard  smile,  not  looking 
at  me.  And  then  we  both  with  one  consent  re- 
sumed our  walk ;  for  we  had  stopped  short  on  the 
margin  of  the  beck.  , 

We  went  on  silently  until  we  neared  the  north- 
ern base  of  Moss-Edge,  where  Burtree-syke  sweeps 
round  to  enter  Helbeck  Lund.  Not  far  off  was  the 
cove  where  once  before  we  had  parted,  I  springing 
away  flushed  and  angry  from  his  kiss.  Perhaps 
Miles  too  remembered  it.  For  when  I  paused 
there,  he  but  took  my  hands  in  his.   And  then  : 

"  Nannette,"  he  said,  "  I  do  not  ask  more,  si.ice 
you  shrink  from  it.  I  trust  you.  But  in  your  turn 
remember  this.  It  is  impossible  to  me  to  forget 
you.  It  is  impossible  to  me  to  love  you  less  than 
now,  and  how  I  love  you  now  you  know  right 
well.     I  will  give  you  time, — will  come  again." 

"  No,"  I  interposed,  hurriedly,  "  you'll  no  come. 
You'll  no  give  me  the  battle  to  fight  over  again." 

"  Not  come  ?    Never  come  ?" 


WEARITHORNE. 


ISI 


I  was  silent.  I  had  not  dreamed  of  putting 
away  the  future  from  me. 

"  I  will  not  deceive  you,  Nannette.  No  words 
of  yours  could  make  me  promise  that.  But  my 
affairs  and  my  mother's  health  require  that  we 
should  go  to  Lond'^n  for  the  winter.  We  leave  in 
a  few  weeks,  and  J  will  give  you  till  then." 

"  Until  you  come  back  in  the  spring,"  I  cried 
out,  eagerly ;  "  you'll  no  seek  me  once  till  then." 

"  So  be  it,"  was  the  slow  answer.  "  I  will  wait, 
— wait  a  long  time,  if  you  will." 

What  was  a  month — a  winter — to  make  or  mar 
all  Mally's  and  my  future  ?  A  dreary  foreboding 
crept  over  me.     A  long  time  ?     I  faltered  out, — 

"  All  a  life.  Miles  ?" 

"  No,  for  my  love  is  stronger  than  the  thing  that 
parts  us,  let  that  be  what  it  may." 

Even  I  then  hardly  knew  how  strong  that  thing 
was.  I  had  stepped,  as  he  spoke,  over  the  cross- 
ing of  the  stream  just  there.  Our  hands^fell  apart 
as  I  did  so.  For  a  few  paces  we  walked  on,  on 
either  side  of  the  syke,  slowly,  sadly,  looking  in 
each  other's  eyes  the  farewell  we  could  not  speak. 
TSien  my  path  turned  up  the  side  of  Mallerstang, 
and  I  followed  it. 

So  we  were  parted. 


/  t 


VII. 

I  *Tis  but  a  summer's  day,  I  ween. 

This  mom  the  sunlight  tangled  through 
The  forest-boughs  that  crossed  the  blue, 
And  we  were  wandering,  I  and  you, 

Where  all  the  fulness  of  that  sheen 

Smiled  on  the  daisied  turf  between. 

'Tis  but  a  summer  day,  I  ween. 

To-night  the  moonlight,  smiling  cold, 
jj         Just  peers  from  out  her  cloudy  hold, — 

The  daisies  now  no  more  unfold, — 
One  moonbeam  trembles,  us  between. 
The  ghost  of  what  the  day  hath  been. 

'Tis  but  a  summer  day,  I  ween.     »  / « 

Why  should  we  strive  to  make  it  more  ? 
It  must  be  so,  and  was  of  yore, — 
The  night  comes,  and  the  day  is  o'er, 
And  hopes  that  glowed  with  sunny  sheen 
Now  flit  like  moon-pale  ghosts  between. 

K ESTER  came  home  soon  after  me,  for  all  the 
world  like  a  thunder-cloud,  lowering  and 
sullen  with  the  pent-up  wrath  which  was  to  break 
in  storm.  I  was  in  no  mood  to  heed  his  black 
looks,  as  he  flung  himself  into  the  great  arm-chair 
on  the  hearth,  where  winter  and  summer  he  was 
wont  to  sit.  Letty  was  giving  her  last  glance  to 
the  porridge ;  and  when  she  took  her  basket  on 
her  arm,  prepared  to  depart,  I  followed,  round  to 
(iS2) 


WEARITHORNE. 


»-u»- 


151 


the  shippon-door  in  the  rear,  with  a  last  question 
about  the  morrow's  churning.      * 

As  I  lingered  idly  in  the  doorway,  watching  the 
dusk  creep  slowly  up  and  up  from  the  deep-shad- 
owed meadow-land  between  Moss-Edge  and  the 
Hag,— creep  slowly  up  and  up,  as  the  last  gilding 
of  the  sunset  faded  out  upon  the  opposite  cliffs, — 
I  saw  a  man  advance  out  of  the  shadow. 

At  first  my  heart  beat  wildly  and  fast ;  but  almost 
stood  still  when  I  saw  it  was  not  Miles,  but  Mally's 
lover,  and  he  had  joined  Letty.  And  now  at  last 
Letty  must  hear  the  story  of  the  theft. 

Yet  it  was  not  of  Letty  I  was  thinking ;  of  Letty, 
with  her  cold,  still  ways,  her  set  and  formal  saws, 
and  pious  phrases  to  improve  the  occasion  for 
whatsoever  befell  any  one.  "  It's  none  to  be 
helped,"  was,  to  her  stolid  philosophy  of  insensi- 
bility, sufficient  and  good  reason  to  cease  lament, 
for  herself  or  others.  Ah,  it  is  those  things  which 
can  be  helped,  over  which  it  is  weakness  to  grieve, 
for  strong  will,  not  tears,  will  set  them  right. 
Letty  would  not  grieve  overmuch  for  her  young 
sister.     But  that  man 

If  only  I  might  see  his  face.  I  could  see  he  was 
walking  along  dejectedly  enough,  head  bent,  and 
hesitating  gait,  as  if  in  his  perplexity  and  grief  he 
did  not  heed  his  way.  And  a  great  awe  crept  over 
me.  This  man, — this  lover  of  poor  Mally's, — what 
though  he  was  middle-aged,  uncouth,  rough, — was 
it  the  blow  I  had  dealt,  he  staggered  under  now  ? 


' 


A 


154 


WEARirilORNE. 


I  could  not  answer  the  question,  yet  I  could  not 
put  it  by.  I  stood  and  watched  them,  till  they 
passed  on,  out  of  sight.  I  had  seen  Letty  give 
one  passing  start,  which  checked  her  footsteps  for 
an  instant ;  but  she  then  went  on  at  the  same  pace 
as  before.  Surely  the  tidings  could  not  have 
moved  her  very  greatly.  Yet  there  was  a  great 
awe  upon  me;  and  I  went  slowly  and  wearily 
within-doors  when  those  two  had  passed  behind 
the  nook  where  Letty's  cottage  hid  from  sight. 

Kester  scowled  at  me  as  I  drew  near.  But  a 
heavier  gloom  than  his  displeasure  was  upon  me, 
and  I  went  about  my  household  duties,  recking 
nothing  of  him.  There  was  no  word  between  us ; 
and  when  the  porridge  and  the  oat-cake  were  upon 
the  table,  and  I  bade  him  to  it,  I  received  no 
syllable  in  return,  the  only  answer  being  the 
grating  of  his  chair  as  he  drew  it  forward  over 
the  stone  floor,  and  the  speedy  disappearance  of 
the  dainty  little  sad-cakes  Letty's  skilful  fingers 
had  prepared. 

There  was  silence  throughout  the  meal,  which 
indeed  I  only  forced  myself  to  taste,  when  I  saw 
Kester's  eyes  upon  me  curiously.  I  made  a  feint 
of  busying  myself  with  the  porridge ;  but  Kester's 
"  humph !"  as  he  rose  at  last,  and  passed  by  my  seat 
on  his  return  to  his  own  place  on  the  hearth,  showed 
he  had  seen  through  my  effort.  He  did  not  s'\y 
anything  for  some  time  thereafter:  not  until  I  had 
put  everything  by  in  its  place  again,  and,  all  my 


I 


\    • 


WEARITHORNE. 


-  ii». 


155 


lich 
saw 
feint 

ster's 
seat 

owed 


household  duties  finished,  had  taken  my  accus- 
tomed place  in  the  chimney-corner  Avith  my  knit- 
ting. But  the  monotonous  click,  click,  annoyed 
me  inexpressibly.  My  hands  fell  in  my  lap ;  and, 
after  a  time,  I  laid  my  woiFk  aside,  and  went  and 
stood  in  the  open  doorway. 

It  was  such  a  clear,  bright  night, — for  it  was 
night  at  last.  The  very  breath  of  the  pure  air 
upon  my  brow  gave  me  new  life.  I  would  just 
wander  forth  to  the  scar's  brink 

I  had  not  taken  three  steps  before  a  heavy  hand 
was  laid  upon  my  shoulder.  Kester  whirled  me 
back  with  his  strong  arm  into  the  house-place,  and 
then,  slamming  the  door  fast,  and  leaning  against 
it,  he  assailed  me  with  such  a  storm  of  abuse,  I 
wonder  at  myself  now  that  I  did  not  quail  before  it. 

But  I  stood  there  in  the  patience  of  indifference, 
until  his  wrath  had  exhausted  his  words.  Exhaust 
itself  it  did  not ;  but  he  came  to  a  stop  at  length 
for  sheer  want  of  breath. 

"What  is  to  do  now?"  I  asked  him,  quietly 
enough.  "What  have  I  done  but  stand  an  instant 
in  the  court  for  fresh  air  ?" 

"  For  fresh  air,  forsooth  !  Ye  good-for-naught 
madling,  to  think  to  deceive  me  that  gate!  In  the 
court !  Was't  in  the  court  thou  were  the  day  ? 
Was't  for  fresh  air  thou  were  daikering  by  Har- 
draw  Force  ?" 

"  The  Master  of  Wearithorne  met  me  there,"  I 
forced  myself  to  answer  as  carelessly  as  I  could. 


r  • 


156 


WEARITHORNE. 


"  It  was  no  tryst,  none  of  my  seeking,  and  it  is  no 
like  we  shall  meet  again." 

"  Nay,  that  it  isna,"  he  said,  scornfully.  "  I'se 
take  tent  o'  that.  An  I  see  aught  more  o*  't,  I 
promise  thee  I'se  fettle  it.  An  naught  else  wunna 
serve  ye  but  such  bonny  behavior  as  that,  I'se  ha'e 
ye  bound  out  fast  enow  i*  Manchester.  There's 
factories  there  as  '11  tame  down  the  spirit  o'  any 
hussy  whatsomdever,  wi'  their  click-clack  wheels 
and  such  like  running  gear.  So  mind  what  I  say, 
lass, — ye'sp  flit  fro'  Mallerstang  that  day  I  see  thee 
forgather  wi'  that  callant  again." 

"  Nay,  I'll  no  flit  fro'  Mallerstang,  at  any  odds." 
There  was  something  in  the  quiet  assurance  of 
my  manner  which  startled  him.   He  looked  at  me, 
puzzled  by  it. 

"  I'll  no  flit  fro'  Mallerstang,"  I  said  again,  more 
positively  than  before,  as  I  watched  the  effect  of 
my  words.  "  Kester  Holme  knows  well  he  has  no 
right  to  send  me  here  and  there, — he  has  no  power 
whatever  over  me.  Let  him  remember  this.  I 
mean  to  bide  here  quietly — silently — so  long  as  I 
am  left  free  and  at  peace.     But  if  I  am  not  so 

left " 

"  Ay,  and  what  then,  thou  saucy  witch  ?" 
I  could  see  he  was  greatly  startled.  I  could  see 
the  ruddy  hue  had  left  his  weather-beaten  cheek, 
and  his  lips  were  set  together  after  the  effort  that 
one  sentence  cost  him.  For  I  had  never  before 
braved  him  thus  within  his  reach.     I  could  see  he 


WEARITHORNE. 


157 


was  perplexed  with  wondering  what  I  could  have 
heard  from  Miles  Lethwaite;  and  yet  he  spoke 
with  would-be  carelessness,  lest  after  all  it  might  be 
I  knew  nothing,  and  this  was  but  a  new  phase  of 
my  wilfulness.  ,^  , 

"What  then?  Kester  Holme,  you  had  some 
papers  bound  with  a  green  riband " 

My  voice  shook  there ;  for  he  glared  at  me,  and 
for  the  moment  I  was  in  bodily  terror.  In  truth, 
in  thus  setting  him  at  defiance  I  was  daring  more 
than  I  had  thought.  The  power  of  a  bold,  bad 
man  thus  brought  to  bay, — what  should  hold  him 
from  silencing  my  mocking  voice  then  and  forever  ? 
Who  could  ever  know  the  secret  of  the  lonely 
night  here? 

As  my  eyes  sought  the  floor,  they  fell  upon  a 
stain  in  the  soft  white  stone,  beside  my  foot.  Here, 
half  a  century  ago,  on  one  morning  after  a  wild 
night,  a  pool  of  blood  was  found,  and  a  thick  clot 
of  golden  hair ;  but  never  a  trace  more.  I  looked 
down  at  the  spot  and  drew  my  foot  back  from  it. 
Kester, — did  he  see  it  too  ?  And  what  should 
stand  between  me  and  a  fate  like  this  ? 

Silence  fell ;  deep,  awful  silence.  Through  it 
came  the  slow  tick  of  the  great  clock  on  the  stair, 
— the  shriek  of  the  wind  about  the  northern  gable, 
— the  sharp  whirr  of  the  gases  pent  up  in  the  peats, 
as  they  blazed  and  flickered  out,  and  left  the  shad- 
ows to  grow  longer,  creeping  hither  about  me  and 
Kester,  but  not  blotting  out  that  stain  on  the  white 

14 


n 


\ 


158 


WEARITHORNE. 


'1      M  ! 


I  iil 


stone.  And  then  the  hush  was  broken  by  Kester's 
voice,  hoarse,  and  deep,  and  indistinct,  as  the  first 
muttering  of  a  storm  : 

"  Papers  bound  wi'  a  green  riband,  had  I  ?   Eh  ?" 

I  could  not  answer.    I  was  speechless,  breathless. 

"  Ye'll  none  hae  getten  thoe  papers  ?"  ' 

No  words  could  hold  a  direr  threat  than  those. 
How  should  I  answer  them  ? 

In  the  brief  pause  when  this  thought  came  to 
me,  I  could  not  drop  my  gaze  from  Kester's  lower- 
ing scowl.  I  could  see  he  was  watching  me  in 
fury  hardly  held  back  for  the  moment.  And  as  I 
still  stood  voiceless,  shivering  and  ready  to  sink 
and  cower  there  before  him  in  my  abject  terror,  he 
strode  across  the  space  between  us. 

Only  the  nearness  of  the  peril  could  have  roused 
me  to  such  sudden  strength.  For  I  thrust  the 
great  heavy  oak  table  between  us,  as  if  it  had  been 
a  toy,  and  with  an  instant's  respite  there,  behind  it, 
faced  the  danger  before  me. 

The  danger, — Kester's  fierce,  keen,  cruel  eyes, — 
the  scornful  smile  in  them, — the  unsparing  look 
that  watched  me  as  a  cat  a  mouse.  I  might  elude 
him  for  the  instant, — after  that,  I  was  his  prey. 
'Twas  but  to  reach  out  after  me 

Everything — all  the  past,  all  the  future — came 
to  me  as  one  swift  thought.  The  past, — I  owed 
Mrs.  Lethwaite  little  faithfulness,  yet  I  could  not 
betray  Miles's  mother  to  this  man.  The  future, — 
Mallerstang  was  drear  and  lone,  and  yet  no  other 


WEARirilORNE. 


159 


spot  could  ever  be  home  to  me ;  was  it  not,  too,  in 
sight  of  Wcarithorne  ?  And  how  to  keep  Mrs. 
Lethwaite's  secret  and  my  home  ?  •   . 

But  I  forgot  it  all, — Mrs.  Lethwaite,  my  own 
home,  even  my  fear  and  dread  of  Kester's  violence, 
— when  now  his  mocking  taunt  fell  on  my  ear : 

"  Are  ye  for  telling  me  where  is  the  packet  now? 
Eh,  but  we'n  getten  a  braw  lass  here, — a  rush  of  a 
lass  as  can  brave  auld  Kester  to  his  face  and  ne'er 
a  bit  shivery  nor  feared, — not  she  !" 

"  And  if  I  am,"  I  cried,  letting  go  prudence, 
everything,  in  my  unthinking  passion, — "  if  I  am 
feared,  it  shall  profit  you  nothing.  It's  just  my 
poor,  weak  body  that's  feared, — it's  not  myself. 
For  what  have  I  to  dread  ?  What  but  the  fear- 
some blank  life  is  to  me  ?  Nay,  you  can  make  my 
body  shrink  and  shiver, — you  can  make  it  cry  out 
with  pain, — you  can  strike  it  down  dead,  if  you 
will.  But  you'll  no  make  me,  myself,  tell  where 
that  green-riband  packet  is." 

"  Will  I  no  ?    We'se  see." 

He  flung  himself  round  to  get  at  me ;  but  that 
barrier  stood  me  in  good  stead.  I  flitted  round  it, 
from  his  reach. 

And  then  a  quick  thought  struck  me.  I  hardly 
so  much  as  glanced  round,  while  I  spoke  again  : 

"  I  wonder  how  you  can  fashion  to  forget  that 
packet,  Kester  ?  I  could  forget  it,  happen,  an  you'd 
let  me  bide  in  quiet  up  here  at  the  Hag.  But  it's 
beyond  your  reach, — nay,  an  you  killed  me,  you 


/■I 


160 


WEARITHORNE, 


would  never  win  at  it.  And  I  ware  yov.  of  it, 
Kester, — I  ware  you  of  it,  an  you'll  no  let  me 
be." 

I  knew  the  words  would  goad  him  into  rage 
greater  than  before.  And  thougii,  even  as  I  stopped, 
with  furious  strength  he  dashed  the  heavy  table 
from  between  us,  I  was  not  unprepared.  For  I  had 
edged  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  door, — it  was  swift 
work  to  fling  it  open  and  rush  out. 

I  could  hardly  have  been  afraid  of  Kester's 
heavier  movement  overtaking  me  after  that.  Yet 
I  sprang  half-way  across  the  court,  listening  ibr  the 
sound  of  his  steps  after  me. 

But  I  did  not  hear  them.  I  stopped  shor*"  rn  the 
brink,  listening  instead  to  the  loud  shutting  r  /  the 
door,  and  to  the  heavy  bolts  drawn  behind  me. 

Was  I  turned  off  now,  once  and  forever?  Yet 
I  war.  glad  to  hear  those  bolts  grating  between  ine 
and  the  peril  I  had  been  in. 

Yet  it  was  no  light  thing  to  pass  the  night  out 
here  alone.  I  crept  noiselessly  round  to  the  other 
side  of  the  house,  tried  door  and  window,  but  in 
vain.  They  were  all  fast,  as  I  might  have  known, 
but  that  I  bad  hoped  against  hope.  For  it  was 
methcdical  Letty's  way  to  secure  evciything  but 
the  h'^use-place  before  slie  went  t<   her  own  home. 

When  I  came  back,  and  paused  in  the  court- 
yard, it  was  with  no  thought  of  the  morrow,  or 
of  the  morrows  after  that  I  only  thought  of  the 
long  night  to  be  passed  unsheltereo.   And  Marget  ? 


WEARITHORNE. 


I6i 


But  half  true  to  me  as  she  had  been,  yet  I  turned 
to  her  now  as  to  a  sure  refuge. 

The  early  moonlight  md  the  last  lingering  of 
the  late  twilight  were  enough  to  guide  me  while  I 
made  my  way  down  through  Helbeck  Lund,  over 
the  moor,  and  under  the  limes  that  shelter  Weari- 
thorne. 

I  never  thought  to  find  any  one  with  Marget, 
she  was  so  usually  alone.  And  I  had  crossed  the 
court  to  her  pleasant  room  in  the  left  projecting 
wing,  before  I  heeded  that  the  knitting  -  song 
within  was  not  carried  by  her  shaking  treble 
alone.  Some  special  gossip,  then, — Mally's  story, 
perhaps 

I  turned  away  with  a  fierce  gasp  of  pain. 

In  the  library,  the  curtains  were  not  yet  drawn, 
and  I  could  see  Mrs.  Lethwaite  sitting  in  the  soft 
glow  of  the  wax-lights.  She  looked  pale  and  worn, 
as  the  full  blaze  fell  upon  her.  But  very  fair,  for 
all.  I  could  see  that  presently  in  Miles's  face,  as 
he  came  into  the  room. 

He  leaned  on  the  back  of  her  chair,  and  she 
shifted  her  position  slightly,  and  looked  up  at  him. 
That  long,  full  look, — I  forgave  my  enemy  much 
as  I  watched  it  and  saw  the  smile  come  into  Miles's 
weary  eyes.  For  her  love  was  great.  Could  mine 
ever  have  filled  its  place  to  him? 

It  was  very  bitter,  gazing  in  on  all  that  light  and 
glow.  Not  many  days  ago,  I  would  have  watched 
with  as  little  thought  of  any  part  I  might  have  in 

14* 


/■•• 


1 62 


WEARITHORNE. 


it,  as  one  from  a  mean  garret  looks  up  at  the  moon 
and  is  the  gladder  for  her  splendor.  But  to- 
.  night 

To-night  there  is  an  angry  sense  of  banishment 
upon  me.  And  still  Miles  leans  against  her  chair, 
— still  he  stoops  to  her  with  words  I  cannot  catch. 
And  I  grow  very  weary.  Perhaps  my  position  is 
a  restless  one,  there  on  my  foothold  of  the  knotted 
ivy,  and  half  clinging  to  the  w'ndow-ledge.  I  grow 
so  weary, — I  draw  back 

It  is  but  a  moment ;  and  then  Mrs.  Lethwaite 
rises  and  drops  the  curtains.  Is  that  the  instinct 
of  her  enmity  ?  Shutting  me  out  into  the  dark 
this  night, — coming  between,  as  she  had  come  be- 
tween to  throw  the  shadov/  of  her  guilt  across  my 
way  ? 

A  shadow  crosses  the  curtains  once  or  twice;  and 
then  I  wa/^^  no  more. 


I! 


/-U-' 


VIII. 


Sister,  hark!    atween   the    trees    cometh    naught  but  summer 
breeze  ? — 

All  is  gone ! 
Summer  breezes  come  and  go, — Hope  doth  never  wander  so,— 
No,  nor  evermore  doth  Woe. 

Dear,  that  hour, — it  seemed  my  tread  stamped  the  grave-mould 

on  hopes  dead ; — 

All  is  gone  !  *. 

Was  I  cold  ? — I  die  not  weep ;  tears  are  spray  from  founts  not 

deep; 
My  heart  lies  in  frozen  sleep. 

Sister,  pray  for  me.    Thine  eyes  glea*    like  God's  own  midnight 
skies;— 

All  is  gone ! 
Tuneless  are  my  spirit's  chords ;  I  but  look  up,  like  the  birds. 
And  trust  Christ  to  say  the  words. 

IS  there  in  every  life  a  time  on  which  one  dares 
not  dwell, — a  dreadful  monotony  of  existence, 
in  which  is  no  hope  of  the  future,  no  peace  of  the 
present,  and  dreariest  of  all  it  is  to  turn  and  look 
back  on  the  past?  I  have  read  that  life  is  not  so 
unequally  measured  out  to  us  as  we  would  think, 
— that  as  the  heart  alone  knoweth  its  own  bitter- 
ness, so  we  cannot  say  this  man  has  suffered  most 
— that  has  wellnigh  escaped  pain  and  loss.    It  may 

(163) 


r  '• 


164 


WEARITHORNE. 


be  so;  and  yet  I  think  few  have  passed  through 
so  drear  a  stretch  of  days  as  those  which  widened 
themselves  out  to  weeks  and  months  since  that 
night  I  wandered  back  from  Wearithorne. 

Down  to  the  lonely  Helbeck  Lund  I  had  crept 
back, — had  even  fallen  asleep,  beneath  the  cover 
of  a  rock,  through  part  of  the  long  hours  until 
daybreak. 

At  any  other  time  I  might  have  been  afraid, — 
have  started  at  the  grating  of  a  dead  branch  down 
the  crags,  or  the  near  soughing  of  the  wind  like  a 
deep  breath  about  me.  I  would  have  quaked  when 
the  moon  went  down  behind  those  cliffs, — I  would 
have  listened  motionless,  and  watched  with  fright- 
ened, straining  eyes  for  something  to  cross  the  dense 
darkness.  For  though  I  was  sometimes  wont  to 
go  to  and  fro  after  nightfall,  it  was  seldom  without 
a  sense  of  superstitious  dread.  But  that  night  I 
dreaded  nothing.  It  was  as  if  nothing  more  might 
ever  befall  me.  And  after  a  time  I  slept  the  sleep 
of    tter  weariness  of  body  and  soul. 

When  Lctty  came,  and  I  heard  the  lowing  of  the 
cows  up  in  the  farm-yard,  and  knew  Kester  must 
be  gone  to  the  milking  in  the  Moss-Edge  pasture, 
I  climbed  up  the  cliff  and  into  the  house,  and  so 
to  my  chamber,  easily  eluding  Letty's  observation 
as  she  sat  with  face  turned  from  me  on  her  milking- 
stool.  And  when  Kester  returned  to  breakfast,  I 
came  down  and  took  my  seat  at  the  table  in  such 
a  way  that   Letty  never  suspected   my  forcible 


WEARITHORNE. 


i6s 


ejectment  last  night.  -  But  although  I  put  a  bold 
face  on  it,  I  did  it  with  a  quaking  heart.  It  may- 
be my  seeming  boldness  served  me  in  good  stead; 
for  though  Kester  stared  much,  and  scowled  more, 
he  spoke  never  a  word.  Never  a  word  then,  and 
never  a  word  afterward  upon  the  subject.  For, 
when  all  is  said,  I  think  he  was  not  absolutely 
without  some  sense  of  justice.  I  saw  that, some 
months  after. 

But  first  the  autumn  and  the  winter  passed.  Not 
once  in  all  that  time  did  I  see  Miles  or  Mrs.  Leth- 
waite,  and  but  twice  or  thrice  Marge*-  climbed  up 
the  Hag  to  visit  me.  She  never  asked  me  why  I 
came  no  longer  to  the  Hall.  She  was  changed 
greatly  to  me.  No  more  biting  words,  nor  sharp, 
quick  gibes;  no  more  taking  me  roundly  to  task 
for  this  or  that.  Instead,  she  spoke  but  little,  and 
that  of  the  country  news  alone ;  and  would  sit  fol- 
lowing my  every  movement  with  a  strangely  wistful 
gaze.  She  irked  me  in  those  days.  It  was  as  if 
she  would  draw  my  secret  out  of  me,  with  those 
keen  eyes  of  hers ;  as  if  she  would  force  me  to  cry 
out  with  my  pain.  How  much  she  knew  I  cannot  tell. 
Perhaps  she  too  had  pain  to  bear;  perhaps  if  I 
had  given  voice  to  mine,  and  made  her  sure  of  it, 
she  would  have  told  me  something  I  could  see 
was  on  her  lips  to  tell  me  more  than  once.  But, 
be  that  as  it  may,  her  coming  did  but  sting  me 
with  a  memory  of  all  I  had  lost.  Even  Marget's 
steady  friendship.    Marget,  Mrs.  Lethwaite,  Miles, 


i66 


WEARITHORNE. 


— ^all  had  some  one  dearer  than  myself, — and  I 
stood  so  alone.  And  Marget,  seeing  that  I  willed 
to  stand  alone,  and  that  her  coming  was  no  com- 
fort to  me,  seldom  came. 

I  went  no  more  over  the  old  path  across  the 
moor.  I  went  nowhere  beyond  Mallerstang  and 
Stockdale;  and,  as  Miles  went  *way  so  soon  (I 
had  contrived  to  avoid  the  farewell  he  came  up  to 
Mallerstang  to  say  to  me),  I  hardly  saw  him  at 
a  distance  after  our  parting. 

It  was  in  early  springtime  that  I  heard  the 
Master  was  at  Wearithorne  again.  And  it  was  in 
early  springtime  that  another  change  came  to  my 
life.  No  real  change  to  me,  it  is  true ;  yet,  for  all 
that,  startling  and  great  enough. 

It  was  the  March  Cattle-fair  at  Sedbergh,  and 
Kester  was  always  a-gate  then,  whether  he  would 
buy  or  sell  or  not.  On  no  other  occasions  was  he 
to  be  found  where  it  was  throng  with  folk ;  but  he 
seldom  missed  a  fair  in  all  the  neighborhood,  lest 
he  should  miss  the  driving  of  a  bargain. 

And  so  he  had  gone  over  on  foot  to  Sedbergh, 
and  coming  back  had  left  the  main  road  for  a  short 
cut  'cross  fells.  The  early  spring  twilight  set  in 
with  fog  and  mist,  and  the  storm  rose  by  midnight. 
I  s-at  up  alone  in  the  house-place,  to  let  Kester  in. 
Rain  and  wind  pattered  and  wailed  along  the  pave, 
but  his  footsteps  were  not  heard.  Kester  never 
came  home  that  night.  As  the  gray  morning  wore 
away  to  noon,  I  became  more  and  more  concerned, 


WEARITHORNE. 


167 


thinking  perhaps  he  had  money  with  him,  and  re- 
membering to  have  seen  two  doubtful-looking  men 
with  pedlar's  packs  wandering  the  day  before,  down 
on  the  road  between  Kirkby  Stephen  and  Sedbergh. 
I  took  Rockie  with  me ;  and  after  long  two  hours' 
wandering  off  the  main  road,  where,  of  course,  if 
anything  had  happened,  he  must  have  been  seen 
ere  this, — after  long  two  hours'  wandering  over  the 
gray,  wet  fells  and  through  the  dreary,  hopeless 
drizzle,  Rockie  and  I  found  Kester  Holme. 

There  at  the  western  foot  of  Barfell.  Lying  on 
the  heather-bank,  face  downward  in  the  ling. 

And  that  was  all  was  ever  known  of  that  last 
night  of  Kester's  life.  Whether  the  mists  closed 
round  him  and  bewildered  him, — whether  those 
doubtful-looking  men  had  met  with  him, — no  one 
could  say.  There  was  not  even  reason  to  arrest 
them  on  the  possibility.  I  only  know  that  the 
men  who  at  my  bidding  bore  him  home  to  Maller- 
stang  found  no  money  about  him.  But  I  cannot 
say.  Kester  was  sure-footed  mountaineer  enough  ; 
but  the  mists  upon  these  fells  lurk  on  the  edges  of 
the  overhanging  cliffs,  and  many  a  year  have  swal- 
lowed up  their  prey. 

It  is  a  dreary  thing, — a  house  of  mourning  like 
to  that  at  Mallerstang.  Where  is  the  presence  of 
real  grief,  there  comes  the  self-absorption  which 
shuts  out  the  sights  and  sounds  of  death.  Poor 
Kester's  face  I  could  not  look  upon ;  and  shuddered 
as  I  watched  beside  the  body  all  the  night.    And 


11  ■ 


r  t 


i68 


WEARITHORNE. 


% 


then  the  bier  brought  in, — the  awful  sounds  that 
followed  when  the  coffin  was  nailed  down,  and  the 
poor  soul  shut  out  forever  from  earth.  How  the 
sounds  below  jarred  on  me  then!  They  were  sup- 
pressed, it  is  true, — less  hilarious,  and  of  a  graver 
tone,  as  fitted  the  house  of  mourning.  But  still 
there  was  something  of  merriment,  as  must  needs 
be  among  a  throng  of  good  neighbors  with  abun- 
dance of  good  cheer,  and  but  scant  love  and  regret 
for  the  man  whom  they  were  presently  to  carry  to 
his  other  home.  I  drew  a  freer  breath  when  Letty 
and  I  stood  at  the  shippon  door  and  watched  the 
funeral  procession  winding  down  the  hill.  It  is  a 
cruel  custom,  this,  of  the  women-folk  of  the  house 
biding  at  home.  I  could  not  leave  one  whom  I 
loved,  to  go  with  strangers  his  last  journey, — I  must 
needs  follow  him  until  the  turf  shuts  down  between 
us,  and  the  rest  is  Christ's  to  lead  hii    on. 

Letty  told  me,  as  we  stood  out  of  view  there  in  the 
door, — told  me,  smoothing  her  snowy  apron  down 
over  her  sad-colored  gown,  and  bridling  as  she 
said  it,  even  while  the  last  of  the  procession  could 
be  seen  yet  winding  down  the  hill, — that,  though 
all  this  had  not  happened,  she  could  not  have  been 
much  longer  here  with  Kester.  And  when  I  bluntly 
asked  her  why,  regardless  of  her  simper  and  her 
conscious  smile,  she  told  me  she'd  hae  getten  a 
man  o'  her  own  soon  to  keep  and  fend  for, — Davie 
o'  Burtree-syke  was  to  go  up  to-morn  to  speak  to 
the  parson  about  the  speerings  : 


WEARITHORNE. 


169 


"Eh,  but  ye  mun  come  over,  lass,  to  see  the 
brave  new  inside  plenishing  Davie  '11  hae  getten. 
Nobbut  I've  a  deal  o'  my  own,  below  there  i'  the 
cottage ;  but  Davie's  house  is  a  rare  and  fine  one, 
choose  whativer  ye'd  put  against  it.  And  Davie, 
he's  a  douce  auld-farrand  body.  He  kens  my  bit 
twa  prawd  acres  o'  potato  ground  wad  join  no  that' 
ill  to  his  Far-acre  field  across  the  syke ;  and  he  sees 
it  were  a  kittle  cast  to  be  making  marlocks  at  a 
feckless  lass,  i'stead  o'  taking  to  himsel'  a  'sponsible 
body  to  guide  the  house.  Davie  an'  me,  we  dunna 
talk  a  deal  o'  rubble,  but  we's  *gree  reeght  well, 
for  a'." 

I  looked  her  full  in  the  face,  then  turned  away, 
and  went  up  to  my  own  room,  and  there  wept  bit- 
terly. Wept  long  and  bitterly,  while  the  time 
passed  away,  and  the  procession  long  since  reached 
the  churchyard.  I  wept  for  many  things.  For  my 
own  shamed  and  darkened  life, — for  poor  forgotten" 
Mally, — for  all  the  changed  and  short-lived  memo- 
ries of  this  poor  world,  where  I  might  well  be 
blotted  out  from  Miles's  thoughts,  as  Mally  from 
her  lover's.  And  through  all,  I  wept  for  Kester, 
painful  tears  of  pity  for  his  fate. 

And  the  neighbors  said  I  had  done  well,  when 
the  will  was  opened,  and  it  was  found  he  had  left 
Mallerstang  and  all  to  me. 

The  third  day  was  a  Sunday ;  and  I,  restless  and 
impatient  of  the  quiet  of  the  house, — for  Letty  took 
the  whole  day  to  herself, — determined  on  church- 


/•' 


I/O 


WEARITHORNE. 


J 


going.  Not  because  there  was  any  comfort  there 
for  me ;  but  simply  because  I  must  see  faces  round 
me;  because  I  was  so  shut  out  from  all,  in  my 
drear  isolation,  that  I  could  not  see  them  round  me 
otherwise  than  so. 

But  before  I  had  made  ready  for  my  walk,  there 
nvas  another  motive  in  it.  I  would  go  to  church, 
but  not  with  Letty;  I  would  steal  away  to  the 
little  moorside  kirk, — would  see  Miles  Lethwaite, 
myself  unseen  by  him,  this  once. 

Or  what  if  I  were  seen?  I  would  know  in  a 
glance  whether  I  were  receiving  neasure  for  meas- 
ure,— whether  the  cup  of  bitterness  my  hand  had 
suffered  to  be  pressed  to  Mally's  lips,  my  own  must 
now  drink  of. 

I  would  not  tread  the  old  familiar  way  down  the 
Hag's  front,  but  descended  on  the  Moss-Edge  side, 
and  followed  up  the  syke  until  it  swept  round 
into  Helbeck  Lund.  I  crossed  it  there,  and  then 
a  trickling  feeder  of  the  Swale,  and  was  on  the 
lone  moor,  gazing,  afar  off  to  my  left,  on  the  home- 
grounds  of  Wearithorne,  the  one  knot  of  trees  in 
all  that  neighborhood,  which  for  all  that  bears  the 
name  of  Swaledale  Forest.  In  full  leaf  when  I  had 
seen  them  last, — now  there  was  in  all  the  gray  and 
brown  of  naked  boughs  and  swelling  buds  but  a 
break  or  two  of  fir-dusk  green.  I  might  have  known 
it  would  be  so  ;  and  yet  the  change  came  on  me 
with  a  shock,  as  when  one  looks  on  the  gray  touch 
of  time  in  a  loved  face  one  has  not  seen  for  years. 


WEARITHORNE. 


171 


I  crossed  the  Swale  where  Bowbridge  flings  its 
slight  arrh  over.  And  leaving  behind  the  clump 
of  cottages,  I  came  to  the  knoll  where  the  kirk 
hides  its  gray  tower  in  the  churchyard  yews. 

It  was  a  long  walk,  and  I  had  undertaken  it  but 
late,  so  that  the  choir  fiddle  and  bassoon  were  shrill- 
ing out  their  uttermost  as  I  went  in.  I  entered  so 
softly  that  my  coming  made  no  stir  in  the  congre- 
gation, wont  to  turn  and  gaze  perhaps  more  fixedly 
than  grander  folk.  And  yet  they  were  not  inat- 
tentive, those  simple  folk,  though  here  and  there 
a  woman  hushed  her  baby  on  her  breast  with  a 
croon  not  quite  inaudible.  But  I  took  no  heed 
of  them  that  day,  more  than  of  a  dash  of  brilliant 
color  in  the  dresses,  through  the  "dim  religious 
light,"  and  of  the  mingled  fragrance  of  the  May, 
with  the  yellow  gorse,  and  the  southernwood, 
not  only  "  lads'-love  and  lasses'-delight,"  but  held 
to  by  the  hardy  hand  of  many  a  gray-haired 
shepherd. 

I  stole  to  my  seat  in  an  unoccupied  pew  near 
the  door.  A  pew  manifestly  encouraging  a  delin- 
quent late-comer  such  as  I ;  for  it  is  high,  and  cur- 
tained from  observation,  while  it  has  a  full  view  of 
the  uncurtained  modernized  pews  before  it.  As 
my  glance  wandered  over  them,  I  was  not  long  in 
finding  Miles.  . 

He  was  standing  during  the  chant,  his  head  bent 
slightly,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground, — fallen  into 
a  reverie  so  profound  that  the  rustle  of  his  mother's 


r  t 


172 


WEARITHORNE. 


\\ 


dress,  as  she  took  her  seat  when  the  music  died 
away,  roused  him  with  a  start. 

She  gave  him  a  soft  smile  of  reproof,  and  I  saw 
him  look  into  her  eyes  with  homage  in  his  own. 
Truly  she  was  an  angel  of  goodness  to  the  loyal 
son.  And  I,  who  knew  her  well, — even  I  could 
almost  be  deceived  as  I  sat  watching  her,  and  saw 
her  manifest  devotion,  and  the  strict  attention  she 
paid  even  to  the  curate's  sermon,  of  which  I  heard 
no  word  beyond  the  text:  "First  be  reconciled 
to   thy  brother,  and  then  come  and   offer  thy 

gift." 

"  First  be  reconciled  to  thy  brother,  and  then 
come  and  offer  thy  gift."  That  same  thought  had 
stood  between  me  and  prayer  for  many  a  night  and 
day.  Would  Heaven  accept  my  gift  of  adoration, 
while  I  owed  Mally  the  debt  of  restitution  of  the 
fair  name  I  had  stolen  from  her?  And  for  all, — 
for  all  my  remorse,  for  all  my  suffering, — I  would 
not  pay  that  debt.  What  right  had  I,  then,  to 
come  here  and  offer  any  gift  upon  the  altar  of  the 
House  of  Prayer  ?  Yet  Mrs.  Lethwaite  was  praying, 
— not  hypocritically,  I  fully  believe,  but  as  if  her 
prayers  were  penance  for  her  evil  deeds.  I,  shrink- 
ing prayerless  in  my  corner,  caught  her  clear 
"  We  beseech  Thee  to  hear  us,  good  Lord,"  re- 
sponsive to : 

"  That  it  may  please  Thee  to  defend,  and  provide 
for,  the  fatherless  children,  and  widows,  and  all  who 
are  desolate  and  oppressed." 


WEARITIIORNE. 


173 


Her  clear,  unshaken  tone?,  It  was  a  mockery 
more  cruel  than  that  of  the  Apostle's  Christian  who 
says  to  the  cold  and  hungry,  "Depart  in  peace;  be 
ye  warmed  and  filled."  For  her  own  hand  it  was 
that  had  made  me  desplate  and  oppressed.  And 
not  me  only,  but  Mally 

I  forgot  Mrs.  Lethwaite  there,  and  only  remem- 
bered my  crime.  I  covered  my  face  with  my  hands, 
and  sank  back  in  my  own  corner.  So  far  my  own 
in  its  curtained  isolation,  that  I  forgot  even  the 
voices  round  me.  So  far  my  own,  shut  in  yet  more 
completely  by  my  thoughts,  that  I  started  as  vio- 
lently as  if  I  had  thought  myself  alone  in  the  kirk, 
when  something  softly  brushed  my  hands. 

I  let  them  fall,  and  looked  up,  trembling  at  I 
knew  not  what.  To  find  a  dimpled  arm  stretched 
out  to  me  over  the  back  of  the  pew  in  front ;  and 
a  spicy  breath  of  sweet-gale  that  just  had  touched 
my  cheek. 

The  little  one  had  clambered  up  while  the  mother 
knelt  at  prayers,  and  had  thrust  aside  the  curtains 
till  her  rosy  face  peeped  through.  As  I  looked  up 
at  her  now,  the  roses  were  all  over  dimples  with 
delight.  In  her  innocence  of  sorrow,  she  had 
thought,  most  like,  that  I,  with  my  hands  up 
before  my  face,  was  playing  at  bo-peep  with 
her.  But  some  sense  of  the  sacred  place  was 
present  with  her,  for  she  shook  her  sunny  head 
at  me. 

"  Mammy  say,  *  Be  quiet  wi'  'ee — whisht!' "  she 

15* 


174 


WEARITHORNE. 


said,  in  her  shrill  whisper,  laying  down  the  law 
for  me. 

I  leaned  across  to  the  red,  childish  lips,  which 
met  mine  with  brief  coy  resistance.  And  then  I 
knelt  there  beneath  her,  and  the  iittle  hand  played 
with  my  hair,  my  kerchief,  and  fell  softly  on  my 
neck.  That  night,  when  I  let  my  hair  down  in  my 
lonely  room,  I  found  a  knot  of  sweet-gale  fast  in 
its  braids.  I  have  it  now,  laid  away  in  my  Prayer- 
book,  at  the  Litany. 

I  was  not  praying  then.  I  only  knelt  there, 
strangely  soothed  and  softened  as  the  time  went 
by.  I  gave  no  heed  to  what  passed  round  me  after 
that,  until  I  was  startled  by  the  rush  of  feet,  and 
lifted  my  head  to  see  the  congregation  pouring 
down  the  aisle. 

My  first  thought  was  of  making  my  escape  be- 
fore the  Lethwaites  should  come  this  way.  But 
too  late.  The  congregation,  composed  of  the 
peasants  of  the  dale,  made  room  for  them  to  pass, 
and  Mrs.  Lethwaitc  came  down  the  aisle,  leaning 
on  her  son's  arm,  and  giving  here  a  smile  and  there 
a  nod  to  more  than  one  pensioner  of  the  House's 
bounty.  Mrs.  Lethwaite  is  of  those  who  cultivate 
courtesy  to  all  men  after  the  manner  of  the  juggler 
I  once  saw  at  Sedbergh  Fair,  who,  by  sleight  of 
hand  and  the  slowness  of  one's  eye  to  detect 
him,  raises  a  crop  of  flowers  beneath  one's  glance. 
But  they  are  naught  The  outwa/  i  blooming  of 
true  courtesy  springs  from  seeds  of  kindness  fast 


L>r-^ 


WEARITHORNE. 


175 


bedded  in  the  heart.  And  Mrs.  Lethwaite  had  not 
those. 

Me  I  do  not  think  she  saw,  as  she  swept  by. 
But  Miles,  by  some  chance,  turned  at  the  door,  and 
our  eyes  met.  * 

With  so  brief  a  glance,  thr.*-  I  read  nothing  in 
his.  I  only  saw  he  moved  on  more  quickly  with 
his  mother ;  and  I  was  not  slow  to  interpret  that. 
The  fullest  retribution  was  fallen  upon  me.  The 
parting  from  Miles, — what  was  that — the  never  see- 
ing him — compared  to  seeing  him  turn  thus  from 
me?  Fool  that  I  was,  to  court  the  blow  I  might 
be  sure  would  fall ! 

I  crept  out  from  my  place,  the  last  of  all  the 
congregation.  But  when  I  was  half-way  down  the 
walk  that  sloped  to  the  gate,  I  saw  there  was  quite 
a  little  crowd  about  it.  The  Lethwaite  carriage 
was  just  driving  off,  but  three  or  four  shandries 
and  spring-carts  waited  behind  for  those  of  the 
country-side  who  were  not  too  far  to  come  again 
to  the  evening  service.  Those  who  were,  for  the 
most  part  were  lingering  in  the  kirkyard,  settling 
into  family  conclave  round  the  luncheon-basket, 
or  lounging  upon  wall  or  sunny  mound.  I,  wish- 
ing to  avoid  recognition  and  comment  from  the 
loiterers  at  the  gate,  turned  aside  into  a  lonely 
corner,  waiting. 

Very  soon  the  mid-day  sun,  triumphing  over  the 
lat^  coolness  of  the  morning,  made  a  weariness  of 
idly  wandering  among  the  graves;  and  I  was  fain 


Ml 


r  t 


176 


WEARITIIORNE. 


% 


I!  I 


n 


to  rest,  withdrawn  a  space,  yet  where  the  babble 
of  children's  voices  reached  me,  though  the  solemn 
church  stood  half  between. 

How  tranquil  it  was  here!  The  droning  hum 
of  an  early  bee  that  had  mistaken  the  summer  in 
the  sky-blue  sweep  of  violets  over  the  grave  at  my 
foot,  seemed  a  soft  echo  of  the  beck  that  just  be- 
yond the  mossy  wall  leaped  down  the  sheer  steep 
that  wall  overhung,  to  join  the  Swale  beyond.  The 
faint  flush  of  the  moor  broadened  about  me  here; 
but  farther,  Helbeck  Lund  rose  gaunt  and  bare; 
and  farther  yet,  Penyghent  and  Whernside  massed 
their  burly  forms  where  the  glen  opens  to  the 
southward.  I  had  followed  it  to  them,  forcing  my 
gaze  away  from  the  Lethwaite  carriage  on  the 
white  road  to  which  the  beck  dances  up  gaily,  to 
shrink  coyly  back  again.  And  then  I  had  stooped 
for  a  handful  of  those  violets  from  the  grave.  I 
was  kneeling  there,  plucking  at  them  mechani- 
cally, so  absorbed  in  my  thoughts  that  I  was  just 
conscious,  not  mindful,  of  some  one  standing  with 
folded  arms  against  the  outside  of  the  kirkyard 
wall.  Till  now  he  swung  himself  over,  and  it 
flashed  upon  me  who  it  was. 

I  was  not  facing  him,  and  so  I  gathered  one 
more  blossom,  and  then  rose,  as  if  I  were  not  con- 
scious of  his  neighborhood. 

He  hesitated  an  instant;  then  he  followed  me 
out  of  the  gate.  I  walked  on  at  my  usual  not 
laggard  pace,  knowing  well  enough  that  however 


WEARITHORNE. 


177 


I  might  hasten  he  would  overtake  me,  if  that  were 
his  will.  And  he  did  overtake  me  on  the  bridge, 
— joined  me,  and  said,  quietly,  as  though  we  had 
met  yesterday, — 

"  You  will  let  me  walk  home  with  you?" 
"I  thought  you  had   driven  home  with  Mrs. 
Lethwaite,"  I  said,  by  way  of  a  commonplace  to 
reply  to  his. 

"  I  told  her  you  were  here,  and  I  must  see  you. 
Your  black  dress  and  your  white  face  would  have 
haunted  me  else.  I  hope  you  are  not  angry  with 
me  for  venturing  to  follow  you?" 

"  That  the  black  dress  and  the  white  face  may 
haunt  you  no  longer,"  I  made  answer,  bitterly. 
"  You  would  say  a  word  of  sympathy,  so  that  when 
you  go  your  way  apart,  you  may  forget  both.  I 
thank  you.  Colonel  Lethwaite;  but  I  need  no 
sympathy.  Kester  Holme,"  I  added,  recklessly, 
"  was  no  such  friend  to  me  that  the  color  will  not 
come  to  my  cheeks  before  many  days." 
"  Nannette,  how  unforgiving  you  are !" 
"I  am  unforgiving!"  cried  I,  in  my  blind  pas- 
sion. "  I  have  been  oppressed,  wronged,  tempted, 
till  I'm  woe  for  myself, — there's  none  else  to  greet 
for  me.  I  am  unforgiving!  An  I'd  dared  to  pray 
this  morning,  kneeling  in  yon  kirk,  I  must  have 
prayed  those  fiery  cries  of  David  for  revenge  upon 
his  enemies.  For  retribution, — ay,  though  it  fell 
on  my  own  head  as  well.  It  is  hard,  hard,  I 
shouM  suffer  alone  of  all  the  evil-doers." 


178 


WEARITHORNE. 


■1 


\  e 


I  was  not  thinking  of  poor  Kcster  then,  but  of 
the  mother  of  this  man  beside  me.  My  eyes  were 
wandering  yonder  where  her  carriage  glanced  by 
ghmpses  through  the  gray  avenue  of  Wearithorne, 
as  I  set  foot  on  the  bridge  here. 

It  was  not  strange  Miles  should  misunderstand 
me, — it  would  not  have  been  strange  if  he  had 
shrunk  back  from  me  in  disgust.  But  he  did  not 
so.  He  drew  my  hand  in  hi<;  arm,  with  so  much 
tenderness  in  his  vast  pity,  that  I  was  not  angry 
with  him  for  it. 

He  did  not  speak  at  once;  and  we  moved  on, 
for  I  had  stopped  short  where  he  joined  me  on 
the  bridge.  We  had  passed  some  distance  on  the 
moor  before  he  said,  leaving  rebuke  to  my  own 
softened  feelings,  which  he  must  have  read  in 
humbled  look  and  manner, — 

"You  can  never  suffer  alone.  Your  pain  is 
mine." 

My  pain?  My  guilt  never  could  be  his,  and 
that  was  still  the  fiercest  pang  of  all. 

"  Let  me  go,"  I  moaned.  "  I  am  not  worth 
your  care, — nay,  you  yourself  have  said  it." 

"  I  was  mad  then.  God  knows  I  have  suf- 
fered enough  since  to  blot  out  even  such  words 
as  those.  You  forgot  them  then,  Nannette, — 
forgive  them  now.  And  see, — my  darling,  see  if 
in  your  heart  you  can  find  nothing  but  forgiveness 
for  me." 

Low  on  my  knees  since  then  have  I  prayed 


tl 


WEARITHORNE. 


179 


oftentimes  that  no  such  ttirxptation  as  that  might 
ever  again  assail  me.  For  how  could  I  stand 
against  it?  I  had  nearly  yielded  then,  with  the 
thought  that,  Kester  dead,  and  Mrs.  Lethwaite 
silent  for  her  own  sake,  Miles  might  never  know, 
in  taking  me,  that  he  took  a  false-witness  to  his 
arms. 

Miles  might  never  know.  I  looked  up  into  his 
face  that  stooped  toward  me, — his  true  eyes,  in 
which  no  thought  was  kept  back  from  me.  Could 
my  married  eyes  answer  them,  back  with  a  life- 
long lie?  Would  they  never  veil  themselves  in 
shame  when  his  should  praise  me  pure  and  true, 
and  I  remember  Mally?  Would  they  not  at  some 
unwary  moment  yield  up  all  my  secret,  and  then 
have  to  meet  his  sudden  gaze  of  scorn  ? 

I  bent  my  head,  and  swifter  than  thought  my 
lips  just  touched  his  hand.  Just  touched  it, 
humbly,  and  in  homage  to  his  worthiness.     But — 

"  Nannette !  From  you !"  he  cried,  almost 
angrily. 

I  wrenched  myself  free  from  him. 

"  Stay,"  I  said,  striving  to  steady  my  faltering 
voice.  "  I  will  not  attempt  to  deceive  you.  I 
can  not  be  your  wife." 

"  Can  not,  Nannette?     Say  will  not,  rather." 

"  Will  not,  then." 

"And  why?" 

It  well  might  seem  to  him  he  had  just  cause 
for  anger.     It  well  might  seem  I  had  been  trifling 


r  I 


1 80 


WEARITHORNE. 


with  him,  with  shameless  coquetry.     I  could  see 
chis,  so  could  understand  his  tone. 

"  Tell  me  what  you  mean,"  he  asked  me,  pres- 
ently. "  It  is  some  morbid  fancy  has  taken  hold 
upon  you." 

"Some  fancy!" 

"  Tell  it  me." 

If  I  had  but  told  him,  at  all  hazards,  at  the  first! 
But  now  that  Mally  was  ruined  utterly, — now  that 
it  was  too  late  to  save  her, — that  her  sister  and 
her  lover  were  false  to  her, — now,  how  could  I 
tell  Miles?  And  if  I  were  his  wife,  and  if  one  day 
he  should  see  my  hand  in  Mally's  ruin,  could  I 
bear  the  change  that  surely  would  creep  in  his 
love, — the  scorn  of  me, — the  self-scorn  if  he  still 
could  love  me  on?  This  parting — anything — were 
better  far  than  that. 

He  grasped  my  hands,  and  drew  me  to  him, 
closer  yet. 

"Speak  out,  child.  Do  not  keep  me  in  sich 
torment." 

The  voice  was  not  Miles's  voice,  in  its  hoars'; 
impatience, 

"  I  can  not  speak  out.  I  dare  not  tell  you  any- 
thing." 

"Dare  not?" 

His  face  was  gray  in  its  strange  pallor.  He 
searched  my  soul  through  and  through  with  those 
keen  eyes  of  his  that  held  my  own  so  fast.  If  I 
might  have  slunk  away  from  them,  abased  and 


WEARITHORNE. 


\^- 


i8i 


Le 

I 

id 


wretched  that  I  was !    But  I  had  to  front  my  fate 
with  what  courage  I  might. 

With  what  courage?  I  shook  and  trembled 
there  before  him.  j  \ 

"  Dare  not  ?  Nannette,  have  you  been  false  to 
me?  Can  there  be  anything  that  binds  you  to 
another  man  ?" 

I  was  so  innocent  of  such  a  wrong  to  him,  that 
I  forgot  all  else.  And  he  saw  I  was  innocent.  For 
the  cloud  had  passed  from  him  even  before  I 
answered  him : 

"  None  else.     I  was  ne'er  bounden  to  any  man." 

"  Ay.     To  ifle,  Nannette." 

I  felt  my  strength  all  leaving  me.  I  said  hur- 
riedly, catching  at  the  pledge,  as  at  some  stay, — 

"  Never  to  you.  I — I'll  make  m^^  vow  here  now, 
— I'll  none  be  your  wife." 

He  lost  patience  then. 

"  Is  it  possible  to  understand  you  ?  You  are  free 
to  marry  me, — if  ever  your  fear  of  Kester  parted 
us,  that  is  '>ver,  and  dead  nor  living  can  stand 
between  us.  You  have  kept  me  waiting  in  such 
pat.ence  as  I  might,  till  now " 

' '  You  have  forgotten  I  told  you  we  were  parted," 
I  interrupted  him. 

"  I  remember  one  thing.  It  is  you  who  have 
forgotten.  Till  you  deny  it,  I  will  never  give  you 
up.     I  remember  you  said  you  loved  me." 

"  Did  I  say  that  ?     But  I  tell  you  now " 

"  For  God's  sake,  speak  the  truth.   What  motive 

16 


r  I 


182 


WEARITHORNE. 


can  you  have  for  playing  fast-and-loose  with  me  ? 
Why  did  you  look  at  me  so,  when  I  turned  at  the 
church-door  even  now  ?   No  cry  could  have  called 

me  back  more  clearly.    And  why  did  you 

What  can  you  mean  ?  Your  very  kiss  is  here, — 
do  women  stoop  thus  in  mere  caprice  ?" 

"  Let  me  go,"  I  gasped. 

I  saw  then  how  the  angry  blood  burned  in  his 
brow;  and  he  drew  his  breath  hard  through  his 
set  teeth.     Presently  he  spoke : 

"  I  will  let  you  go.  But  I  will  have  the  truth 
first.  Do  you  mean  you  have  played  me  false  all 
this  while,  and  never  loved  me?  It  is  this  you 
mean  ?    Answer  me, — it  is  this  ?" 

"  It  is  this." 

For  my  life,  I  could  have  done  no  more  than 
repeat  the  falsehood  he  put  into  my  mouth.  I 
could  not  have  collected  the  words  myself  Only 
one  thought  I  could  grasp, — one  instinct,  rather, 
— the  blind  instinct  of  self-preservation.  I  must 
end  this, — escape  from  him  the  shortest  way, — not 
bring  down  the  worst  ruin  on  my  head.  For  if  I 
do  not  escape,  he  will  wring  from  me  all  the  truth. 

"You  mean,  then,"  he  says,  speaking  in  a  strange 
set  tone,  "  you  mean  you  have  trifled  with  me  all 
this  while  ?  And  now  that  I  am  hardly  Master 
even  of  Wearithorne, — that  po .  :rty  is  come  upon 
me, — you  mean  you  have  given    le  shy  gl- nee  and 

blush, — ay,  and  now  a  look Nannette,  if  they 

did  not  mean  you  loved  me,  then  they  lied  to  me." 


«■ 


WEARITHORNE, 


183 


>» 


It  is  harder  than  I  had  thought.  That  last 
strikes  home,  and  I  cry  out,  in  reckless  bitterness 
of  pain, — 

"  It  is  so  easy  for  you  to  know  all  the  truth, — 
to  judge  me, — to  condemn  me  as  you  condemned 
poor  Mally,  innocent  though  she  was." 

"  You  speak  confidently." 

Confidently  ?  Desperately,  rather.  For  in  spite 
of  resolves,  in  spite  of  fears,  I  can  not  part  from  him 
in  silence  so.     I  say, — 

"  Ay,  for, — it  was  I, — I  took  those  papers." 

"  You !" 

He  looked  at  me  as  if  I  had  suddenly  gone 
mad.  I  stood  there,  clenching  my  hands  together 
in  the  endeavor  to  speak  out,  clearly  and  firmly 
and  fully : 

"  I  took  them.  You  remember  that  evening  in 
the  library,  when  you  followed  me  to  the  sofa  ?" 

"  I  remember." 

"  I  meant  to  do  it  even  then," — but  my  breath 
failed  there,  as  I  glanced  at  him.  * 

He  did  not  speak  at  once.  When  he  did,  his 
voice  was  very  low,  very  stern  : 

**  I  can  not  believe  it.  You,  to  ruin  the  girl,  body 
and  soul,  perhaps !" 

"  You  must  believe  it,  when  I  tell  you  how  I 
took  them." 

"  That  same  night  ?" 

"  That  same  night." 

"  But   there  was  no  time.     Mally  was   in  the 


•  ri 


184 


WEARITHORNE. 


library — and  then  my  mother.  I  locked  the  door 
just  after  I  took  her  up-stairs  again.  She  told  me 
then  you  had  gone  home." 

He  said  it  doubtingly,  as  if  my  story  were  alto- 
gether incredible, — as  if  I  myself  had  made  some 
strange  mistake.  He  said  it  wistfully,  eagprly,  as 
if  beseeching  me  to  say  he  was  right. 

I  hesitated.    Then  I  said, — 

"  Your  mother  did  not  see  me  in  her  dressing- 
room." 

For  the  woman  was  his  mother.  I  had  looked 
up  into  his  set  face.  I  had  done  harm  enough. 
Let  me  at  least  leave  him  his  faith  in  her. 

"  It  was  before  that,"  I  began  again,  "  there  in 
the  library, — the  candle  did  not  fall  by  accident, — 
and  in  the  dark  I  made  sure  of  the  papers." 

"  Nannette,  you  had  those  papers  when  we  stood 
together  in  the  hall  that  night  ?  You  had  those 
papers  when  I  told  you  how  I  trusted  you,  and 
prayed  you  to  be  true  with  me?" 

"  Even  then,"  I  answered,  steadily.  "  And  I  de- 
stroyed them,  and  lost  your  bank-note — I  did  not 
know  what  it  was  then — on  the  moor's  edge  where 
Mally  said  she  found  it." 

He  turned  away  from  me  without  a  word. 

He  would  have  left  me  so.  But  I, — I  fling  my- 
self in  his  path, — I  catch  at  his  arm, — I  call  his 
name  in  a  wild  sob : 

*'  Miles,  Miles,  it  was  for  love  of  you  I  did  it." 

He  unwinds  my  clinging  fingers  scornfully. 


WEARITHORNE. 


185 


K 


For  love  of  me  1     How  often  do  you  think  to 


)> 


deceive  me  ? 

**  It  is  the  truth !"  I  cry.  "  It  was  because  those 
papers  might  take  Wearithorne  from  you." 

"  Now  we  have  it !" 

He  stoops  and  looks  me  full  in  the  eyes  for  the 
first  time.    And  he  goes  on,  with  slow  contempt : 

"  I  begin  to  understand  it  now.  You  had  great 
care  for  the  Master  of  Wearithorne.  You  were  will- 
ing to  wait  a  month, — two  months, — until  spring, — 
to  :3ee  if  this  search  after  the  lost  heir  would  spend 
itself  And  since  it  has  not, — since  it  is  still  impos- 
sible to  say  I  shall  not  go  forth  penniless  from  the 
old  place  to-morrow  or  next  year, — since  it  is  im- 
possible to  say  that,  you  are  ready  at  last  to  say 
instead,  *  I  played  you  false, — I  never  loved  you.'  " 

"  I  was  false  to  you  then,  Miles  Lethwaite, — 
false  to  you  only  then.  For  I  have  always  loved 
you.  Nay,  but  you  shall  hear  me  !  You  cannot 
leave  me  so." 

In  my  quick  movement, — for  he  is  going  from 
me,  quitting  me  without  one  farewell  word  or 
glance, — the  little  knot  of  violets  I  had  gathered 
from  the  grave  falls  from  my  bosom  at  his  foot. 
I  see  his  glance  follow  them.  And  he  sets  his 
heel  upon  them,  grinding  them  down  ijito  the 
moist  bud.  At  that,  I  steal  one  look  up  to  his 
white,  prssionate  face.  It  is  all  over  with  me 
now. 

Yet  I  say,  faintly, — 

16* 


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23  WFST  MAIN  STREET 

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1 86 


WEARITHORNE. 


it 


If  you  could  believe  me- 


»i 


"  If  I  could  believe  you !   What  am  I  to  believe? 

tl  am  free  to  choose,  indeed, — ^your  words  now, 

— ^your  words   ten   moments   since, — your  little 

comedy  in  the  library  that  night, — ^your  tragedy 

now  ?" 

Then,  when  he  has  no  answer,  very  coldly: 

"  Nannette,  I  have  been  a  fool  once  in  my  life, 
but  I  am  not  altogether  mad." 

I  did  not  answer  him  one  word.  Perhaps  I 
could  literally  not  have  moved,  have  spoken.  I 
was  as  one  paralyzed  by  the  horror  of  a  blow  that 
is  to  fall.' 

It  was  not  long  in  falling.  He  turned  sharply 
on  his  heel  and  strode  away.  But  while  I  still 
stood  there,  stunned  utterly,  he  turned  again,  came 
near  to  me,  and  took  my  face  in  his  two  hands, 
looking  full  ihto  it. 

I  did  not  seem  to  care, — not  feel.  I  heard  the 
beck  ring  out  beside  us  there.  My  eyes,  uplifted, 
not  to  Miles,  took  note  of  a  swallow  waving  his 
flight  overhead,  the  one  blot  on  the  blue.  I  re- 
member that  slow,  floating  motion.  I  never  shall 
forget  the  breath  of  the  white  woodruff  in  which 
a  bee  was  humming  at  our  feet.  They  were  all  so 
far  from  me ;  I  was  so  far  from  myself  that  I  re- 
member even  wondering  what  it  would  be  to- 
morrow, when  I  could  think,  could  feel.  I  even 
heard  Brownie  treading  down  and  croppinfr  the 
tufted  grass  along  the  marge,  a  few  yards  off.    But 


WEARITHORNE. 


187 


more  clearly  than  that,  I  remember  listening  to  the 
beck,  whose  gurgle  came,  a  mockery  of  mirth, 
between  his  words : 

"What  could  one  trust,  if  not  such  eyes  as 
these, — so  frank  a  seeming  brow, — lips  that  show 
as  pure  and  truthful  as  a  child's  ?  But  I  will  let 
you  go,  as  you  have  said.  And  one  day, — I  know 
it  even  now, — one  day  I  shall  find  it  in  my  heart 
to  be  glad  you  have  denied  me  that  wretched  love 
in  which  is  no  trust." 

I  did  not  blench,  not  quail.  Passive  and  mute 
and  still,  I  never  stirred  the  while  he  kissed  me 
on  lips,  cheeks,  and  brow.  Kissed  me,  not  ten- 
derly, reverently,  as  he  had  the  once  before,  but 
with  a  passion  which  left  me  faint  and  breathless 
when  suddenly  he  put  me  from  him. 

I,  toq,  went  my  way,  slowly  and  painfully,  be- 
yond the  beck,  toward  home.  I  did  not  heed  that 
Brownie  followed, — that  he  thrust  his  head  against 
my  shoulder  as  we  went.  Brute  sympathy  and 
love, — we  reach  out  after  them  with  a  caress  in 
our  careless  hands,  in  hours  of  hope,  or  gladness, 
or  light-heartedness.     But  in  the  dark 

It  was  so  dark  there  in  the  noontide.  I  could 
hardly  see  Miles  passing  by,  along  the  farther 
side,  where  the  beck  stretched  out  between.  So 
wide,  it  seemed  to  my  reeling  senses  to  yawn  be- 
tween us  as  a  gulf.  No  arm  might  reach  across  it 
now.  No  passionate  word,  no  cry  of  pain,  draw 
either  of  us  over. 


i88 


WEARITHORNE. 


When  the  weary  day  wore  by  to  evening,  I 
roused  myself,  and  went  to  milk  the  cattle  lowing 
in  the  yard.  I  had  but  set  the  milking -pails 
beside  the  gate,  and  was  stooping  to  unlatch  it, 
stretching  first  my  hand  to  Jetty,  with  the  salt  I 
had  brought  for  her,  when  I  heard  a  footstep  on 
the  court-yard  rock. 

I  so  nearly  faced  her,  that  I  did  not  need  to  turn 
my  head,  in  order  to  see  who  was  coming.  And, 
as  if  I  had  not  seen  her,  I  continued  to  lean  over 
the  wall,  and  to  give  my  hand  to  Jetty.  She 
should  see  me  as  I  was, — the  milkmaid,  not  the 
Lethwaite. 

"Annot!"  • 

The  voice  was  shaking  and  irresolute.  I  turned 
and  faced  her. 

"Annot,  I  have  climbed  up  all  this  way  to  speak 
with  you.  Will  you  not  come  in  with  me,  some- 
where that  we  may  talk  quietly  ?" 

"  Say  on,  Mrs.  Lethwaite.  Mallerstang  Hag  is 
lonely  enough.  We  shall  not  be  overheard,  unless 
by  Jetty  here." 

If  I  was  insolent,  it  must  be  owned,  at  least,  I 
had  good  cause.  Why  should  she  come  to  seek 
me  now, — now  when  it  was  all  too  late  to  save  me 
from  the  gulf  into  which  she  had  suffered  me  to 
plunge  ? 

But  if  I  was  insolent,  she  was  strangely  humble. 
She  came  and  stood  beside  me,  leaning  against 
the  wall,  too,  but  at  safe  distance  from  Jetty's 


WEARITHORNE. 


189 


suddenly  lifted  horns.  I  had  stooped  for  another 
handful  of  salt,  and  kept  my  face  to  Jetty  still. 

"Annot,  what  have  you  done  to  my  son  ?"  Mrs. 
Lethwaite  asked  me,  suddenly,  after  a  pause. 

"  What  have  I  done  to  your  son,  Mrs.  Leth- 
waite?" 

"I  know  he  went  back  to  the  church  to  you, 
Annot.  He  came  home  looking  wellnigh  as  if 
his  death-blow  had  been  struck  him.  A  mother's 
eyes  cannot  be  blinded.  *  I  have  come  to  you  to 
know  why  it  is  so  with  him." 

I  did  not  turn  toward  her,  but  spoke  very 
quietly: 

"  Your  son  loves  me,  Mrs.  Lethwaite." 

I  heard  her  draw  her  breath  hard.  Then  she 
said,  as  quietly  as  I  had, — 

"Well?" 

"And  I  told  him  to-day  I  would  never  be  his 
wife." 

Another  long  breath;  I  knew  that  was  a  sigh 
of  relief.  But  softer  thoughts  prevailed,  and  she 
said,  presently, — 

"  Miles  loves  you  very  truly,  Annot." 

"  Not  more  truly  than  I  him." 

"How,  then,  can  you  bear  to  make  him 
wretched?" 

"Because  I  do  love  him,"  I  answered  her.  "Be- 
cause I  have  some  regard  for  his  honor." 

"His  honor?" 

I  turned  upon  her  then  with  bitter  emphasis : 


190 


WEARITHORNE, 


"  His  honor.  Is  not  the  wife's  the  husband's  ? 
Is  it,  do  you  think,  no  taint  on  him  to  give  his  name 
to  a  thief  and  a  false-witness  ?" 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  Annot !" 

I  could  see  she  was  greatly  shocked.  Perhaps 
she  had  not  accustomed  herself  to  face  the  truth, — 
to  put  it  in  those  words.  But  I  had,  and  I  repeated 
them  again. 

"  How  can  you  say  such  dreadful  things  ?"  she 
asked,  with  changing  color. 

"  Because  they  are  the  truth.  Because  I  will 
not  shame  a  man  like  Miles  Lethwaite  by  blinding 
my  own  eyes  with  a  lie.  Because  I  cannot  stand 
beside  him  as  a  wife  should,  with  no  concealment 
between  me  and  him." 

She  was  leaning  there  against  the  stone  wall, 
averted  from  me.  Yet  I  could  see  how  ashen  pale 
she  was,  how  her  lip  quivered  in  the  dainty  profile, 
and  how  the  slender,  gloved  hands  trembled,  folded 
together  on  the  wall.  Were  softer  thoughts  for 
Miles  and  me  then  warring  with  her  care  for  self? 
I  did  not  know  the  woman  even  yet.  I  remem- 
bered how  she  had  clung  to  me  in  her  hour  of  suf- 
fering, how  her  head  had  lain  upon  my  arm,  her 
restless  fingers  clasped  my  own.  A  softer  feeling 
stole  over  me, — a  wild  hope, — and  at  its  bidding  I 
spoke : 

"  There  is  but  one  way,  Mrs.  Lethwaite.  If  Miles 
could  know  all !  If  you  would  tell  him  all!  He 
might  forgive  me  then,  for  your  sake,  seeing  how 


-      H 


WEARITHORNE. 


191  - 


the  wrong  was  done  and  unconfessed  for  you.  He 
must  forgive  you,  for  you  are  his  mother, — you  too 
sinned  for  him.     Ah  I  if  you  would " 

My  passionate  pleading  was  cut  short  by  the 
slightest  of  involuntary  shrugs  of  Mrs.  Lethwaite's 
stately  shoulders.  It  said  plainly  enough  that  she 
was  listening  with  impatience,  and  with  not  one 
movement  of  sympathy.  And,  as  I  broke  off,  she 
turned  her  cold  face  slowly  round  to  me : 

"  You,  then,  would  deal  him  a  heavier  blow  than 
all  ?"  she  said.  "  Can  you  think  his  mother's  honor 
touches  him  less  nearly  than  his  wife's  ?  But  it  is 
in  your  power,  of  course,  yourself  to  tell  him  all. 
Only  remember,  I  did  not  bid  you  do  this  wrong 
to  the  girl  Mally.  You  might  have  cleared  her. 
All  I  bound  you  to  was  your  promise  to  spare 
Miles.  It  was  not  for  me  to  betray  you.  It  was 
not  I  lost  the  note  for  which  she  was  found  guilty. 
I  had  nothing  to  do  with  that  wrong." 

Was  it  even  so  ?  Before  my  weary  eyes — weary 
with  striving  to  find  my  way  through  the  thick 
darkness — flashed  back  every  scene  when  I  had 
watched  mother  and  son  together, — every  glance 
of  trustful,  loving  admiration  I  had  seen  him  give 
her.  Could  there  in  truth  be  any  heavier  blow  than 
this  ?  And  she  had  had  nothing  to  do  with  this 
wrong  ?  Literally,  it  was  true.  I  had  seen  to-day 
that  it  was  possible  to  clear  Mally  without  impli- 
cating Mrs.  Lethwaite.  Seen  to-day, — too  late. 
Might  I  not  have  seen  before,  had  not  self-love 


r  I 


192 


WEARITHORNE. 


blinded  me?  Poor  Mally!  Her  part  in  all  this 
— her  right  to  exculpation — had  been  forgotten  in 
the  tumult  of  selfish  personal  feeling  and  in  the 
longing  to  shield  Miles  from  pain.    And  then : 

"Your  promise,  Annot!"  Mrs.  Lethwaite  cried, 
her  face  and  manner  changing  as  my  silence  alarmed 
her.  "  Have  you  forgotten  that?  And  will  you 
break  it?  Annot!  Annot!  have  mercy, — not  for  my 
sake,  but  for  Miles's.    You  promised  me " 

"And  I  shall  keep  my  promise." 

I  did  not  think  it  needful — as  it  would  be  vain 
— ^to  humiliate  myself  by  telling  her  how  I  had 
already  kept  it  this  day.  I  will  not  repeat  the  fer- 
vent thanks  which  followed, — the  implorings,  striv- 
ing to  be  cordial,  yet  faltering  in  every  breath,  that 
I  would  forget  all,  would  come  to  her,  and  let  her 
show  her  gratitude  all  her  life  long  to  her  son's 
wife.  They  filled  me  then  with  pent-up  fury,  as 
even  now  they  make  my  lip  quiver,  my  hand  shake 
with  wrath  while  I  set  this  down.  It  is  but  a  black 
record,  that  which  writes  down  all  this  time.  But 
this  one  whiter  line  there  is  in  it, — ^that  there  was 
no  regret  for  my  confession,  but  only  cold  disdain, 
as  I  listened  to  all  her  prayers,  all  her  promises 
that  even  as  I  had  kept  her  secret,  so  would  she 
keep  mine, — that  Miles  should  never  know  aught 
of  his  wife 

I  drew  my  hands  away  from  her  at  that  last 
word,  and  turned  my  back  on  her,  and  went  my 
way  into  the  house-place,  letting  the  door  slam  to 


WEARITHORNE. 


193 


behind  me.  It  was  not  lady-like ;  it  was  not  court- 
eous. But  what  else  was  one  to  expect  from  a 
Nannette  o'  Kester  o'  Mallerstang?  Standing  as 
I  did  upon  the  hearth,  yet  where  the  window  gave 
me  a  full  view,  myself  unseen,  of  Mrs.  Lethwaite, 
I  could  read  that  thought  in  her  face. 

Her  glance  just  wandered  over  the  homely  house; 
then  to  the  milking-stool  and  pail  standing  where 
I  had  set  them  down.  Then  her  eyes  fell  to  her 
gloved  hand, — the  hand  mine,  perhaps,  had  stained 
in  her  clasping.  And,  with  a  faint  smile  of  calm 
disdain  upon  her  haughty  lips,  she  moved  on, 
across  the  courtyard,  picking  her  dainty  way  down 
the  rough  steep.  Perhaps  it  was  as  well, — her  Miles 
could  not  long  regret  a  little  rustic,  rude  and  sim- 
ple and  untaught  as  this. 


1 


IX. 


II    . 


Never  a  moment 

Silence,  night  or  day, — 
Can  there  be  quiet 

Under  churchyard  clay  ? 
Will  not  her  footfall 

Among  the  grasses  sweep, 
And  shake  my  heart  beneath. 

And  wake  from  sleep  ? 

TN  the  light  of  to-day,  as  clear  and  broad  it  floods 
my  window  here  in  the  sunset  and  throws  its 
unsparing  glare  full  on  the  record,  I  have  written 
the  last  page  of  my  life.  It  ended  there.  The 
remainder  is  but  such  a  waiting  as  of  the  souls 
under  the  altar,  crying,  How  long  ?  how  long  ? 

Prisoners  of  hope.  But  what  is  still  for  me  to 
hope, — or  yet  to  fear  ?  When  a  deluge  has  once 
swept  over  one's  life  and  covered  even  its  serenest 
heights,  there  is  little  need  of  a  bow  of  promise  to 
tell  one  at  last,  from  the  dispersing  clouds,  that  no 
storm  again  may  desolate  as  that  has  desolated. 
Over  the  bleak  waste  now,  storm  after  storm  might 
roll,  and  find  there  nothing  to  uproot. 

In  the  light  of  to-day,  I  have  stood  face  to  face 
with  my  past,  and  have  blinded  my  eyes  no  more. 

Mally, — Mally's  wrong The  shadow  of  Weari- 

(194) 


WEARITHORNE. 


195 


thorne  vanishes  from  between  me  and  the  truth, 
like  the  misty  scene  of  a  dream  out  of  which  I  am 
awakened.  But  the  wrong  to  Mally  darkens  in  the 
light,  a  tangible  reality,  the  darker  for  the  years 
that  stretch  between. 

How  many  years  ago  ?  They  would  not  count 
by  decades;  they  have  not  dimmed  the  gold  of  my 
hair,  greatly  faded  out  the  color  from  my  cheek. 
The  mirror  told  me  that,  this  morning,  when  I 
sought  another  answer  to  my  query  if  I  yet  were 
growing  old.  Row  long  ?  how  long  ?  I  have  so 
many  years  to  live,  with  my  frame  the  mountain 
air  has  braced ;  my  step  as  active  up  the  mountain 
paths ;  my  pulse  that  beats  as  strongly,  never  flut- 
tering, nor  failing  me.    And  with  my  weary  heart. 

And  yet  I  have  no  right  to  so  weak  lamentation 
and  complaining : 

*«  The  thorns  which  I  have  reaped,  are  of  the  tree 
I  planted;  they  have  torn  me,  and  I  bleed. 
I  should  have  known  what  fruit  would  spring  from  such  a  seed." 

They  have  torn  me,  and  I  bleed;  and  yet  life  has 
not  all  been  one  wide,  gaping  wound.  I  have  had 
no  right  to  expect  balm  of  soothing;  and  yet  balm 
has  come  to  me. 

It  is  an  easy  life  I  lead.  My  cheery  little  maid- 
of-all-work  comes  up  day  by  day  from  her  mother's 
cottage  which  once  was  Letty's,  hard  by  Davie  o' 
Burtree-syke's,  down  in  the  dale  below  ;  I  have  oc- 
cupation enough  in  directing  my  shepherd,  and  in 


^ 


196 


WEARITHORNE. 


the  superintendence  of  my  dairy, — which  super- 
intendence in  cheese-making  season  develops  into 
more  activity;  and  I  aye  go  up  alone  to  Moss-Edge 
for  a  day  or  two  after  the  peat-cutting.  I  have 
many  a  volume  of  my  own,  too,  now,  besides  this 
stained  and  weather-beaten,  lying  always  here  upon 
my  desk.  And  now  and  then  in  the  lone  evenings 
Marget  brings  her  knitting-work,  and,  though  the 
talk  between  us  is  constrained,  she  manages  to  let 
fall  some  word  of  her  latest  tidings  of  the  Master 
of  Wearithorne.  She  came  oftenest  after  he  had 
gone  back  to  his  regiment  in  India,  and  that  awful 
dread  of  battle  was  upon  us.  But  seldomer,  now 
that  the  war  is  over,  and  we  are  once  more  breath- 
ing freely,  and  with  honors  and  promotion  he  is 
again  in  London,  where  his  mother  braves  it  with 
the  bravest  of  the  ladies  there. 

But  there  is  yet  a  greater  soothing  than  the  hush 
of  my  daily  life  can  bring.  It  is  the  comfort  in  my 
power  to  give  to  here  and  there  a  suffering  soul 
around  me.  Yet  in  this  there  is  the  same  pang 
which  strikes  through  everything  in  my  whole  life. 
I  never  give  away  a  bannock  or  a  half-crown — I 
never  smooth  a  pillow  for  the  aching  temples  of  a 
sufferer — I  never  kneel  beside  a  death-bed  with  a 
last  prayer  for  the  parting  soul — without  a  memory 
of  one  whose  honest  portion  in  this  world  I  stole 
away, — whose  pillow  my  hand  made  all  rough  with 
thorns, — ^whose  parting  soul,  perhaps,  may  ere  now 
have  fainted  away  in  the  worn  body,  with  no  friend 


1 


WEARITHORNE, 


197 


to  give  a  word  of  help  or  comforting.  And  yet, 
what  can  I  do?  Once  the  path  was  clear  enough, 
but  when  I  shut  my  eyes  to  it,  I  lost  it. 

I  tried  to  find  it  again,  indeed,  before  I  sat  down 
helplessly  in  this  still  life  of  mine.  I  went  to  Man- 
chester,— to  Halifax, — to  York, — spending  drear 
months  in  trying  to  glean  tidings  of  poor  Mally  in 
the  factories.  Here  and  there  I  found  MMos  had 
been  before  me ;  but  Mally  I  never  found.  The 
Hag  was  altogether  unbearable  to  me  in  those 
days.  It  was  haunted  by  the  mem  >iy  ot  my 
wrong  to  her,  and  I  went  forth,  hoping  to  leave 
that  memory  behind  me.  But  it  would  not  be  left 
behind.  It  followed  me  out  into  the  great  bustling 
world,  and,  when  I  thought  it  gone,  made  its 
presence  known  in  some  trivial  daily  occurrence. 
I  might  have  looked  that  so  it  would  be.  There 
is  a  twice-told  tale  of  Naunty  Marget's,  of  the  gob- 
lin Hob-o'-th'-Hurst,  who  by  his  uncanny  pranks 
drove  the  old  farmer  forth  at  last  from  the  home- 
stead. Away  jogged  the  good  man,  his  worldly  pos- 
sessions all  heaped  up  round  him  in  his  tumbrel- 
car, — jogged  on,  and  met  a  neighbor  by  the  way. 
"  And  so.  Kit,  ye're  flitting?"  called  the  neighbor. 
'*  Ay,  ay,  we's  flutting,"  cried  Hob's  voice,  with  hol- 
low echo,  from  the  churn.  So  we  were  flitting,  that 
haunting  memory  and  I, — until  like  the  farmer  I 
turned  and  gat  me  back  to  the  familiar  roof-tree, 
wearily  resolved  no  more  to  flee  that  inevitable 
fellowship. 

17* 


r-i 


iq8  wearithorne. 

And  so  the  days  go  on.  But  aching  doubts 
will  come  in  now  and  then,  and  shake  my  very 
*soul.  Doubts  stronger  sometimes,  and  with  yet  a 
fiercer  pang,  since  I  have  set  down  all  upon  these 
pages.  I  thought,  when  I  began,  to  bring  out 
brighter  memories  around  me.  But  the  darker 
shadows  creep  in  closer  round  the  setting  sun, 
yonder  beyond  the  dusky  line  of  Helbeck  Lund. 
There  is  one  golden  glory  lingering  yet.  One 
golden  memory  of  Miles's  love.  It  lights  these 
pages  as  it  shines  across  them  even  now.  And 
now  I  close  the  book.  The  after-leaves  are  blanks. 
No  new  page  to  be  turned,  until  Death's  own  hand 
turn  it,  writing  there :  - 


y 


J^^e-^     <:2^ 


a 


•I 


T  NEVER  thought  to  have  turned  another  page 
A  in  my  life's  story.  I  thought  it  was  to  flow  on 
silently  to  the  great  Finis.  I  laid  my  book  away, 
here  in  my  desk,  and  the  days  came  and  went,  as  I 
looked  for  them  still  to  come  and  go  until  the  end. 
But  just  one  week  ago  to-day 

One  week  ago  to-day.  How  long  it  seems! 
I  could  believe  it  years,  since  I  came  home  in  the 
early  sunset  from  my  ramble  down  in  Helbeck 
Lund. 

I  did  not  know  why  my  spirits  flagged  as  I 
clambered  up  the  steep.  I  only  felt  the  vague 
dulness  stealing*  over  me,  and  saw  that  it  was 
growing  dark,  and  shivered  in  the  chilly  air,  and 
knew  the  dreary  home-coming  awaiting  me.  Not 
even  old  Reekie  now,  to  watch  whining  for  me  on 
the  height.  There  was  a  feeble  flicker  from  the 
house-place, — too  feeble  to  bring  good  cheer.  No 
one  to  be  seen, — nothing  heard,  unless  my  own 
foot  on  the  rocky  court,  and  the  hoarse  waters 
down  below  the  Hag;  or,  as  I  neared  the  house, 
the  occasional  stamping  of  the  one  cow  still  for 
convenience  kept  up  in  the  straw-littered  farm- 
yard. 

(199) 


r^i 


V 


.  I 


200 


WEARITHORNE. 


I 


A  faint  flicker  from  the  house-place, — ^the  door 
of  the  house-place  open  wide.  I  quickened  my 
pace  at  that.  I  had  let  my  little  maid  go  home  an 
hour  ago,  and  myself  had  closed  the  door  behind 
me  after  her.  How  came  it  open,  then?  My 
threshold  was  not  greatly  oftener  crossed  than 
Kester's  in  the  time  before. 

As  I  paused  on  it,  I  saw  a  figure  crouched  be- 
fore the  low  peat  fire  on  the  hearth.  At  the  sound 
of  my  footfall,  the  rustle  of  my  dress,  she  started 
up,  staggered  toward  me  a  few  steps,  and  fell  to 
the  floor  in  a  half  swoon.  * 

I  had  dragged  forward  one  of  the  benches  to 
the  fire,  raised  the  poor  shadowy  burthen  on  it, 
and  was  kneeling  beside,  chafing  the  thin,  cold 
hands,  before  I  knew  her.  For  then  the  lids  lifted 
themselves  wearily,  and  the  ghost  of  Mally  stared 
out  on  me,  hollow-eyed  and  wan. 

I  do  not  know  what  I  said,  wKkt  I  did.  It  was 
absolute  terror  seized  upon  me.  If  the  girl  had 
come  back  in  her  winding-sheet,  the  grave-mould 
clinging  to  her  shroud  and  hair,  the  grave-damps 
to  her  wasted  hand,  my  heart  could  not  have  sunk 
within  me  in  more  helpless  horror.  Till  the  gasp- 
ing voice  roused  me : 

"Letty  would  none  o*  me;  and  Davie, — I 
couldna  stay  to  hae  him  fleer  at  me.  Fse  gae 
back  the  gate  I  came  to-morn,  but  I  reckoned 
thou's  let  mt  rest  here  for  a  gliff." 

I  could  not  answer  her.  Unless  it  were  an  answer 


\ 


WEARITHORNE. 


201 


to  bring  down  my  pillow  there  for  her,  to  wraip 
her  warmly, — she  was  shivering  in  the  summer 
evening  air, — and  to  give  her  the  cup  of  tea  which 
she  drank  eagerly,  famishingly, — holding  my  hand 
the  while,  and  murmuring,  as  she  sank  back  on 
her  pillow, — 

"  Eh,  but  thou's  rare  an*  good,  lass, — rare  an* 
good." 

Rare  an'  good!  The  faint  voice  stabbed  me 
through  with  an  exceeding  bitter  pang.  I  could 
have  bowed  down  there  before  her  and  confessed 
all.  But  I  saw  she  could  not  bear  it.  And,  as  the 
lashes  drooped  again  over  the  white  cheeks,  I 
stole  out  into  the  open  air. 

The  girl  was  more  than  weary,  I  could  see  that 
nght  well.  She  shivered,  yet  there  was  a  burning 
heat  about  her  hand,  a  strange  bright  glitter  in  her 
eyes,  that  made  me  sure  it  would  be  morrows 
more  than  one  before  she  could  go  back  the  gate 
she  came.  Something  must  be  done  for  her  more 
than  I  knew  how  to  do. 

But  how  could  I  leave  her  alone,  to  go  so  far  as 
even  the  nearest  apothecary?  And  Letty, — if  I 
went  down  to  her,  could  she  be  prevailed  upon  to 
do  my  errand  for  me?  She  could  better  do  it 
than  my  own  little  maid  below  there ;  and  if  she 
hesitated,  at  this  moment  I  felt  strong  enough 
to  prove  to  her  Mal'"'j  innocence  with  my  own 
guilt. 

With  this  resolve,  I  went  round  to  that  side  of  the 


r  I 


:  \ 


202 


WEARITHORNE, 


Hag  which  sloped  down  to  Moss-Edge  Hollow. 
The  sun  had  sunk  now  below  Helbeck  Lund.  Its 
glow  was  still  on  the  Hag's  brow,  but  the  long 
shadows  drifted  longer  on  these  eastern  slopes. 
Not  so  dark,  however,  but  that  I  could  see  half- 
way down  the  descent  some  one — a  man — stand- 
ing indistinct  in  the  gray  dusk. 

I  readily  imagined  he  could  be  no  other  than 
Davie  o*  Burtree-syke,  driven  hither,  perhaps,  by 
the  calm,  discursive  sermon  I  could  figure  Letty 
preaching  while  she  stirred  the  "  parritch,"  with 
poor  Mally  for  her  text.  Driven  out,  perhaps,  with 
sheer  weariness, — perhaps  with  a  mournful  memory 
of  the  girl, — certainly  with  pity  enough  in  him  to 
do  my  bidding  for  her.  I  stood  a  moment  on 
the  brow,  shading  my  eyes  with  my  hand  from  the 
glow  here,  the  better  to  see  into  the  dusk  there. 
Should  I  call  or  beckon  him  up?  The  shorter 
way  would  be  to  go  down  to  him. 

The  shorter  way,  especially  if  one  took  it  as  I 
did.  For .  I  ran  swiftly  down  the  slope,  and  was 
■almost  close  upon  him,  when  he  lifted  himself  from 
his  lounging  posture  against  the  rock  and  turned 
to  front  me  directly. 

No  Davie  o'  Burtree-syke, — but  Miles  Leth- 
waite. 

He  lifted  his  hat  with  grave  courtesy,  and  would 
have  moved  away.  But  I  sprang  forward  then. 
He  would  help  me.  I  dared  not  shrink,  and  wait 
for  other  aid. 


Ill 


WEARITHORNE. 


203 


"  Colonel  Lethwaite,  I — I  did  not  know  you, — I 

thought How  can  I  ask  you  ? — ^but  I  must 

have  help.  Some  one — ^yes,  it  is  Mally — is  up 
yonder  at  the  Hag,  ill,  dying  perhaps.  I  have  no 
one  to  send  for  a  doctor,  and  I  dare  not  leave  her." 

"  Mally !" 

I  wrung  my  hands  impatiently. 

"If  you  would  go!" 

He  quitted  me  without  another  word. 

I  did  not  stay  to  watch  him.  I  knew  so  well  he 
was  gone  for  help.  I  went  up  again  to  the  house- 
place,  and  began  my  helpless,  weary  watch. 

I  believe,  even  then,  wellnigh  hopeless  as  well. 
I  sat  there  by  her  side,  and  never  moved  my  eyes 
from  her  still  face.  She  slept,  and  there  was  no- 
thing heard  in  the  room  but  her  fluttering,  irregu- 
lar breathing,  the  crackling  of  the  blazing  peat  now 
and  again,  the  rushing  of  the  beck  down  in  the 
Lund,  and  the  tick-tick  of  the  old  clock  on  the 
stair.  After  a  time,  that  ticking  seemed  to  rise  up 
and  drown  all  the  others.  Was  it  measuring  out 
the  moments  of  poor  Mally's  life  ?  Even  now, — 
was  she  breathing  even  now  ? 

"^  was  leaning  toward  her,  listening  fearfully, — 
listening  so  intently  that  I  never  heard,  until  a  step 
was  close  behind  me.  I  turned  then,  and  saw  Miles 
Lethwaite. 

"  I  sent  a  trusty  messenger,"  he  said,  in  a  sub- 
dued tone.  "  You  cannot  blame  me  if  I  could  not 
leave  you  here  alone." 


r 


204 


WEARITHORNE. 


!  t 


Blame  him  ?  But  I  did  not  venture  to  thank 
him.  I  only  dropped  my  face  against  Mally's  pil- 
low, hiding  it  there  from  him. 

And  my  remorseful  fear  for  the  faint  life  breath- 
ing out  here  beside  me  was  even  stronger  than  the 
sense  of  Miles's  nearness.  Life  in  the  presence  of 
Death, — how  it  all  sinks  to  nothingness ! 

I  had  almost  forgotten  he  was  there,  until,  as 
time  went  by,  he  came  to  me,  not  touching  me,  but 
bending  near,  and  saying  low, — 

"  It  is  the  doctor's  step,  no  doubt.  Be  yourself, 
Nannette ;  be  calm  and  strong  to  meet  him." 

I  was  calm.  My  trouble  lay  too  deep  to  ruffle 
my  manner.  I  stood  waiting  at  the  foot  of  the 
bench  until  the  doctor  should  come  in  and  give  his 
verdict. 

What  did  he  say  ?  How  could  I  listen  to  it  ? 
I  only  know — I  remembered  it  afterward,  though 
I  hardly  was  aware  of  it  then — ^that  Miles  sud- 
denly came  close  to  me,  putting  his  arm  across 
the  chair-back  before  which  I  stood.  Was  there 
something  in  my  face  to  call  him  there  ?  I  only 
know  that  I  did  brace  myself  to  hear  every  word 
of  the  directions  the  doctor  gave.  They  were  few 
enough.    "  It  will  not  be  for  long,"  I  heard  him  say. 

I  stood  there  still,  and  listened  to  his  step  pass- 
ing out  on  the  stone  court.  And  then  Miles  came 
again,  and  said  to  me, — 

"He  says  she  can  be  moved.  Shall  I  carry 
her  up-stairs  for  you  ?" 


WEARITHORNE. 


205 


I  could  not  answer  him,  but  for  reply  took  up 
the  candle  and  the  pillow  when  he  raised  her  in 
his  arms  and  followed  me  out  from  the  house- 
place  up  to  my  own  room.  He  laid  her  gently  on 
the  bed  there,  while  I  set  the  candle  near,  upon  my 
desk. 

* 

"  Do  you  know  what  is  to  be  done  for  her?"  he 
asked  me  as  we  stood  together  by  the  bed. 

Mechanically  I  repeated  all  the  doctor  had  said. 

"  That  is  right.  And  now  I  will  go  send  Marget 
to  you.  She  will  help  you,  will  stay  with  you 
until " 

He  broke  off  there.  He  could  not  say  to  me, 
"  until  Mally  dies."     I  put  in,  hurriedly, — 

"  Not  to-night, — to-morrow;  but  to-night  I  must 
be  alone.  No,  do  not  urge  me.  I  tell  you  I  shall 
go  mad  if  I  am  not  left  in  quiet." 

"  To-morrow  morning,  then." 

In  turning,  he  brushed  against  the  desk  upon  its 
stand.  It  shook  unsteadily ;  I  reached  out  to  stop 
the  candle,  and  the  book  which  aye  lies  on  my  desk 
was  jostled  to  the  floor. 

He  stooped  for  it ;  I  hardly  heeded.  But  when 
I  saw  his  start  as  he  replaced  it,  I  knew  it  was  my 
poor  little  weather-stained  volume  of  poems, — his 
sole  gift  of  long  ago. 

Let  it  be.  What  if  he  did  see  how  it  was  treas- 
ured ?    J  was  past  caring  now. 

He  had  put  the  book  down  as  if  it  had  stung 
him.     But  I  was  past  being  stung  by  that.    There 

18 


206 


WEARITHORNE. 


was  nothing  I  took  reckoning  of,  save  the  changes 
in  the  wan  face  on  the  pillow. 

And  so  I  did  not  clearly  know  when  Miles  quitted 
me.  I  did  not  know  anything  that  night,  but, 
strangely  enough,  the  hours  for  the  powders  the 
doctor  had  left  me.  I  heard  when  the  stair-clock 
rang  them  out,  and  I  moved  then — never  any  time 
but  then — from  my  crouching  posture  down  by 
Mally's  bedside, — from  my  watching  of  her  with 
eyes  wide  and  dry. 

And  then  the  candle  flickered  in  the  socket,  and- 
grew  wan  in  the  gray  dawn  that  stole  in  through 
the  half-shut  window.  Mally  was  sleeping  now, 
and  I  crept  out^down-stairs.  He  said  he  would 
send  Marget  this  morning.  Would  she  be  coming 
now  ?  For,  standing  up  there  at  that  window,  I  had 
caught  sight  of  an  indistinct  shadow,  as  of  some 
one  just  moving  along  the  corner  of  the  house. 

"  Marget,  is  it  you  ?" 

I  was  standing  on  the  outer  threshold  of  the 
house-place,  leaning  against  the  door-post,  for  a 
dizziness  came  over  me,  and  I  was  fain  to  steady 
myself  there.  When  the  shadow  hesitated ;  came 
direct  this  way  ;  and : 

"  Is  there  any  change  ?"  Miles  Lethwaite  asked 
me,  quickly. 

I  shook  my  head,  and  then  I  faltered, — 

"  Marget  will  not  come  to  me  ?" 

"  Surely  she  will.  I  have  no  doubt  she  will  be 
here  presently." 


WEARITHORNE, 


207 


"But  if  she  does  not?  O,  why  did  you  not 
bring  her?" 

He  did  not  answer.  And  looking  up  at  him,  his 
worn  face,  his  hair  and  beard  and  dress  damp  with 
the  night-dews  and  the  morning  mists,  I  saw  he  had 
shared  my  watch  with  me, — he  without,  I  within. 
The  first  sob  that  had  come  to  me  in  all  my  dry-eyed 
misery  throbbed  in  my  throat  then ;  but  I  choked 
it  back.     It  was  not  for  me  to  weep  for  Mally. 

"  Did  you  know  you  were  watching  with  a  mur- 
derer ?"  I  asked,  in  a  voice  which  sounded  hollow 
and  strange  to  my  own  ears. 

"I  know,"  he  said. 

He  would  not  cloak  my  guilt  to  my  own  eyes 
nor  his ;  but  he  did  not  turn  from  me  at  that  word. 
There  was  a  yearning  pain  in  his  eyes  that  met 
mine  steadily.  I  knew  if  he  condemned  me,  there 
was  a  bitterness  as  of  condemning  himself  Why 
should  any  words  more  be  spoken  between  us  ?  I 
turned  to  go  to  my  place  up-stairs  again. 

But  there  fell  another  footstep  up  the  court. 
Marget's  ?  The  doctor's  returning  ?  For  it  was  a 
heavier  than  a  woman's  tread. 

And  then  a  man  came  slowly  round  the  gable. 
He  brushed  past  me  into  the  house-place,  stood 
there  looking  round  as  if  he  had  expected  to  find 
some  one,  and  then  turned  to  me  abruptly : 

"  Hae  ye,  too,  sent  her  off?" 

No  need  for  me  to  press  my  finger  on  my  lips  as 
I  motioned  him  to  follow.    That  he  understood 


r  I 


208 


WEARITHORNE. 


me  at  once,  I  could  see  from  the  sudden  paling  of 
his  sunburnt  face.  He  followed  me  with  labored 
noiselessness  up  the  stone  stairs,  and  on,  through 
the  door  of  my  room  which  I  had  left  unclosed. 

But,  noiseless  though  we  were,  the  girl  stirred 
while  we  stood  there  beside  her.  Her  eyes  wan- 
dered round  the  room ;  then  fixed  themselves  on 
him. 

It  was  a  long,  still  gaze,  wistful  and  wondering, 
and  never  changing.  But  his  eyes  that  answered 
it,  changed  every  instant  with  the  angry,  scornful, 
pitying  thoughts  that  thronged  each  other  in  them. 

And  she  spoke, — I  hear  the  faint,  low,  quivering 
tones  even  yet : 

"  I  kenned  he'd  look  at  me  so.  I  thought  I'd 
hid  mysel'  so  as  he'd  ne'er  find  me  out.  How 
could  he  win  here  o'  this  wise,  to  threep  it  at  me? 
Will  the  fever  hae  him,  too  ? — he  be  clemmed  an* 
drouthed  like  me." 

Then  with  a  sharp,  quick  wail : 

"  He  ne'er  looked  so  at  me, — it  is  his  spirit !  It 
grows  so  dark  here  under  the  sod, — ^but  I  can  see 
the  corpse  they  streaked  beside  me  last  night  i' 
the  damp  cellar.  Davie,  man !  didna  one  say  'at 
Letty  an*  thou, — I — I  dunna  rightly  know, — I's 
that  wore  out *' 

Slower  and  slower  the  words  came, — lower  and 
lower, — and  the  lids  drooped  again  over  the  tired 
eyes.  Davie  stirred  then  for  the  first  time.  He 
set  his  teeth  hard,  and  I  heard  him  mutter, — 


I:l 


WEARITHORNE. 


209 


» 


"  Nay,  I'll  none  forgie  her.  SheVe  a  spoiled  niy 
life  an'  her  own, — I'll  none  forgie  her." 

At  that  she  opened  her  eyes  again.  They  sought 
him  with  that  same  strange,  wistful  gaze.  I  think 
now,  she  had  not  heard,  not  understood.  But  I 
could  bear  it  no  longer.  As  he  was  turning  away 
sharply,  hurriedly,  afraid  to  trust  himself,  I  put 
my  hand  on  his  sleeve  : 

"  You  have  nothing  to  forgive  her.  It  is  I 
spoiled  your  life  and  hers." 

He  stared  at  me,  and  would  have  moved  away, 
as  if  it  were  not  worth  his  while  to  listen  to  a  girl's 
vain  babble.  But  I  did  not  remove  my  clasp.  He 
should  hear  what  I  had  to  say : 

"  It  is  I.  Mally  is  innocent.  She  never  took  the 
money.     It  was  I, — I  took  it  away." 

"You!" 

The  fury  gathering  in  his  eyes  would  have  made 
me  tremble  at  another  moment.  Now,  it  seemed 
there  was  nothing  left  for  me  to  fear.  But  the  w'>'-d 
was  a  threat.  He  shook  off  my  hand;  his  face 
was  dark  with  rage.  But  I  did  not  quail  because 
of  that.  It  was  because  I  saw,  blacker  and  more 
appalling  than  ever,  the  fulness  of  my  wrong. 

My  shuddering  limbs  refused  to  support  me. 
The  room  reeled  before  me.  I  was  fain  to  sink 
down  on  the  chair  Miles  placed  for  me,  when  he 
came  forward  and  stood  between  Davie  and  me. 

I  think  I  had  even  then  passed  away  from  Davie's 
mind  as  entirely  as  if  I  had  never  been.     He  had 

18* 


/•) 


2IO 


WEARITHORNE. 


turned  to  Mally  again,  standing  near,  but  not  stoop- 
ing toward  her,  and  never  moving  his  eyes  from 
'the  still  face. 

He  never  stirred,  save  now  and  then  a  strong, 
sharp  shudder  shook  his  powerful  frame  as  if  it  had 
been  a  leaf.    He  stood  there  still;  until  at  last: 

"  Lassie !"  he  said,  brokenly, — "  little  lassie !  say 
but  ye  forgie  me !" 

Her  blue  eyes  looked  up  to  his,  but  there  came 
no  answer  into  them.  Was  she  already  so  near 
the  opening  gate  of  the  spirit-land  that  she  could 
only  look  back  her  last  upon  a  distant,  indistinct, 
and  shadowy  earth,  all  its  voices  dying  off  from 
her  on  her  far  height  ? 

"  Little  lassie !" 

The  words  groaned  forth  again  were  the  only 
words  that  broke  the  stillness.  We  stood  there, 
never  moving,  any  of  us.  It  seemed  a  long  time 
passed  away,  and  then  another  stealthy  tread  came 
up  the  stair,  and  Marget  was  among  us. 

And  we  waited  in  the  silent  chamber;  waited 
until  it  should  be  the  chamber  of  death.  We  all 
of  us  felt  that  hush.  We  all  of  us  felt  that  we  and 
our  earthly  agitations  and  emotions  were  as  nothing 
here.  There  is  a  time  for  grief, — there  is  a  time 
for  remorse, — ^but  that  time  is  not  the  tranquil 
death-hour. 

After  awhile  her  glance  roved  restlessly  about 
the  room,  and  her  lips  moved.  Just  moved, — so 
faint  and  still  the  slow  words  came : 


WEARITirORNE. 


l;i 


211 


"  Will  they  ne'er  rest,  the  weary,  weary  vheels  ? 
They's  wear  my  life  out,  wi'  their  click-clack,  click- 
clack,  on  an'  on.  0, 1  think  an  Davie  kenned " 

It  was  the  stair-clock,  ticking  out  the  weary 
seconds  as  they  went.  Not  many  more  of  that 
poor  life  to  measure  now.  For  Marget  had  gone 
forward  suddenly,  had  raised  the  head  on  her  strong 
arm 


I  think  I  went  stupid  after  that.  I  can  hardly 
remember  anything,  save  of  moving  about  me- 
chanically at  Marget's  bidding ;  until  this  morning. 

Marget  and  I  had  been  passing  in  and  out  of  the 
■  juse-place,  where  the  neighbors  were  assembled 
for  the  burying,  and  bearing  in  the  beef  and  beer 
and  burial-buns  to  the  little  tables  set  out  here 
and  there.  I  had  been  back  and  forth,  never  seeing 
any  one  there,  never  hearing  anything;  until : 

"  Ay,  Letty  be  a  sponsible  body  enow,  an'  'twere 
a  vast  o'  pity  as  Mally  werena  one  o'  t*  sort.  Ye 
see,  a'  her  trouble  were  o*  the  web  o'  her  own 
weaving.     It  were  a  very  deal  o'  money " 

"Ay,  ay." 

I  set  my  tray  down  suddenly.  I  glanced  over 
where  Davie  itood  alone  in  the  deep  window,  his 
rugged  profile  gray  and  stern  and  still  as  if  he  had 
been  struck  with  death.  He  had  not  heard  the 
lowered  comment,  any  more  than  Mally  in  her 
coffin  half  seen  through  the  open  door  into  the 
inner  room.    Would  he  not  hear, — not  speak  to 


RfJINHHIIigi 


212 


WEARITHORNE. 


right  her?  Ah,  I  think  he  knew  just  then  but  of 
one  wrong  to  her, — ^the  short-coming  of  his  own 
faith. 

I  gathered  all  my  strength.  I  went  forward, 
standing  before  them  all,  yet  seeing  nothing  but 
that  half-open  door,  and  stern,  stiii  Davie,  his  lone 
in  the  window. 

"  It  was  never  Mally  took  that  money, — it  was 
I " 

I  never  heeded  the  stir  and  comment  round  me, 
— the  curious  questions, — the  sneers  looked  and 
uttered.  I  stood  in  the  midst  of  them  all,  alone, 
as  I  had  always  been.  When  I  felt  my  hand 
drawn  in  a  strong  arm;  and,  leaning  upon  Miles, 
I  faced  them. 

"  It  is  not  for  us  to  judge,  who  are  not  as  God, 
to  know  the  whole,"  he  said,  his  voice  overbear- 
ing all  the  tumult.  And,  while  there  fell  sudden 
silence,  he  led  me  away,  shutting  the  door  fast 
between  me  and  their  judgment. 

It  was  very  good  in,  Miles,  I  felt, — very  noble 
and  true-hearted.  But  it  was  pain  to  me  to  lean 
on  him  thus,  feeling  all  the  while,  as  I  was  feeling, 
that  it  was  out  of  his  great  compassion,  nowise  out 
of  his  trust  in  me,  that  he  had  spoken  for  me.  I 
drew  my  arm  from  his  as  we  reached  the  foot  of 
the  stairs,  and  would  have  gone  without  a  pause 
up  to  my  chamber.    But  he  stopped  me. 

"It  is  not  for  us  to  judge,"  he  said  again.  "I 
feel  that  bitterly  enough  to-day.     But  you,  Nan- 


I 


WEARITHORNE. 


213 


nette, — have  you  judged  me  and  condemned  me 
utterly?" 

I  could  not  speak.  I  stood  there,  leaning  on 
the  balustrade,  shivering  and  trembling  as  I  lis- 
tened to  him.  They  were  far-off  tones, — the  voice 
of  love  calling  across  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of 
Death.     It  cannot  always  call  us  back. 

He  laid  his  palm  on  my  hand  that  rested  on  the 
balustrade,  while  he  said,  huskily, — 

"  My  darling  shall  not  think  now,  but  rest.  I 
will  come  for  my  answer  to-morrow.  God  in 
heaven  have  her  in  His  keeping !" 

In  heaven,  in  His  keeping  ? 

The  house  is  very  quiet  now.  Marget,  too, 
went  to  the  burying, — coming  up  one  moment  to 
my  room,  stooping  over  and  covering  me  where  I 
lay  on  the  bed,  and  saying,  tenderly,  she  would  be 
back  very  soon  to  stay  with  me.  I  moved  a  little 
from  her  as  she  spoke,  and  hid  my  folded  hands 
from  hers  beneath  the  pillow.  For  if  indeed  this 
throbbing  pulsing  in  wrist  and  temples  means  the 
fever,  why  should  she  stay  with  me  yet  ? 

I  have  been  up  since  they  all  left,  leaning  over 
my  desk,  adding  these  few  pages.  For  the  still- 
ness was  unbearable  as  I  lay  there,  thinking,  think- 
ing. Miles  bade  me  not  think,  but  rest.  How  is 
it  in  the  grave  ?  Is  there  no  thought  in  that  long 
rest  ? 

My  good  auld  Naunty  Marget  left  my  Prayer- 


<  i 


214 


WEARITHORNE. 


book  on  the  bed  beside  me,  open  at  the  Burial 
Service.  She  must  have  known  the  words  well,  it 
would  speak  to  me: 

"  In  the  midst  of  life  we  are  in  death :  of  whom 
may  we  seek  for  succor,  but  of  Thee,  O  Lord, 
who  for  our  sins  art  justly  displeased? 

"Yet,  O  Lord  God  most  holy,  O  Lord  most 
mighty,  O  holy  and  most  merciful  Saviour,  deliver 
us  not  into  the  bitter  pains  of  ete*-nal  death. 

"  Thou  knowest,  Lord,  the  secrets  of  our  hearts; 
shut  not  Thy  merciful  ears  to  our  prayer ;  but  spare 
us,  Lord  most  holy,  O  God  most  mighty,  O  holy 
and  merciful  Saviour,  Thou  most  worthy  Judge 
eternal." 

Is  there,  then,  forgiveness  for  me  ?  Mally's  lips 
have  closed  for  evermore  without  that  word ;  but 
has  God  let  her  send  <his  message  from  her  grave? 

Life  were  worth  living  so, — or  death  worth 
dying. 

Which  is  mine? 

Marget  can  tell  me,  it's  like.  She'll  no  be  much 
longer  now.  So  I  must  close  my  book, — lay  it 
away.  It  were  such  an  old,  old  friend.  I'll  wait, 
— and  bid  her  destroy  it,  if 

How  the  letters  swim  before  me! — the  room 
grows  dizzy.    If  Miles 

THE  END. 


•  \ 


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